■ 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2016 


https://archive.org/details/stheticsorsciencOObasc 


AESTHETICS; 


OR 


9 


THE  SCIENCE  OF  BEAUTY. 


By  JOHN  BASCOM, 

PROFESSOR  IN  WILLIAMS  COLLEGE 


NEW  YORK: 

WOOLWORTH,  AINSWORTH,  AND  COMPANY, 
51,  53,  & 55  JOHN  STREET. 

1870. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1862,  by 
JOHN  BA8COM, 

in  the  Clerk’s  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


AUG  21  IWVff  TS 


4E-  12740  ^ 


PREFACE. 


The  following  Lectures  were  written  with  a desire 
to  supply  the  want  of  an  exclusive  and  compact  trea- 
tise on  the  principles  of  taste.  Though  the  literature 
of  this  subject  is  voluminous,  there  is  no  work  which 
gives  itself  singly  to  a systematic  statement  of  the 
nature  of  beauty,  and  of  its  primary  and  fundamental 
laws.  Karnes’s  Elements  of  Criticism,  so  long  used  in 
academic  and  collegiate  instruction,  contains  matter 
which  belongs  to  several  distinct  departments,  and  is 
not  a complete  or  thorough  presentation  of  the  sub- 
ject of  taste,  for  which  it  has  been  chiefly  relied 
on. 

So  many  principles  have  been  established  in  the 
department  of  beauty,  so  much  of  the  mind’s  action 
in  this  direction  is  understood,  as  to  entitle  the  sub- 
ject to  distinct  consideration ; and,  at  the  risk  of 
some  offence,  we  have  ventured  to  style  our  work 
^Esthetics ; or,  The  Science  of  Beauty. 

It  has  been  our  aim  to  combine  and  present  in  a 
systematic  form  those  facts  and  principles  which  con- 


iv 


PEEFACE. 


stitute  the  department  of  taste,  and,  as  far  as  may 
be,  to  make  good  its  claim  to  the  rank  of  a distinct 
science.  In  so  doing,  we  have  striven  to  render  a 
service  to  the  general  reader,  and  yet  more  to  this 
branch  of  instruction. 


CONTENTS 


LECTURE  X. 

PAGB 

Motives  for  the  Cultivation  of  Taste.  — Definitions.  — Di- 
vision of  Subject.  — Beauty,  Simple  and  Primary  . . . 1 


LECTURE  II. 

Beauty  lies  in  the  Expression.  — Illustrated  and  established. 

— Expression  defined  in  the  Inorganic  and  Organic  Worlds. 

— Causes  of  Ugliness 14 


LECTURE  III. 

Expression  defined  in  Man.  — Effect  of  Sin  on  our  Judgments 
of  Human  Beauty.  — Keflex  Influence  of  Man  on  Nature  . 29 


LECTURE  IV. 

Second  Condition  of  Beauty,  Unity.  — Unity  and  Variety 

DEFINED,  ILLUSTRATED.  — GRANDEUR  AND  SUBLIMITY.  — RELA- 
TIVE and  Absolute  Beauty 45 


LECTURE  Y. 

Third  Condition,  Truth. — Imitations.  — Truth  defined.  — De- 
pendence of  Art  on  Nature.  — The  Ideal 62 


LECTURE  VI. 


Symbols  of  Expression.  — Form.  — Color.  — Light  and  Shade.  — 
Motion.  — Sound 77 


VI 


CONTENTS. 


LECTURE  VII. 

Faculty  through  which  Beauty  is  reached.  — Standard  of 
Taste.  — Why  Disagreements.  — Taste,  how  cultivated.  — 
Through  Knowledge,  through  Purity.  — Imagination  and 
Fancy 95 


LECTURE  VIII. 

Principles  controlling  Beauty.  — Subordination  of  Beauty.  — 
Incidental  to  real  End.  — Ornament.  — Congruity  and  Pro- 
priety.— Nude  Art.  — Reasons  why  condemned  . . . Ill 


LECTURE  IX. 

Economy  of  Beauty.  — Principles  involved.  — Dignity  of  Beau- 
ty. — Effect  on  Choice  of  Themes.  — On  Treatment  of 
Themes.  — Summation 129 


LECTURE  X 

Things  which  mislead  Taste.  — Novelty.  — Nature  of.  — Re- 
semblance. — Value  of.  — Association.  — Effect  on  Judgment. 

— Habit.  — Custom.  — Importance  of  their  Influence  . . 144 


LECTURE  XI. 

Landscape  Gardening.  — Relative  Rank  of  the  Arts.  — Right 
of  Criticism  and  its  Limit.  — Dimensions  of  Garden.  — Object 
of  Gardening  — Its  Resources.  — Plants.  — Trees.  — Plat.  — 
Plantation.  — Features  within  the  Garden.  — Without  the 
Garden.  — Spaces.  — Walks  and  Avenues.  — Enclosures  Ar- 
chitectural Aids.  — Powers  disciplined 160 


LECTURE  XII. 

Architecture.  — Its  Object  as  a Fine  Art.  — Its  Three  Offices. 
— Skill  and  Ornament.  — Resources  of  the  Architect.  — 
Materials  : Stone,  Brick,  Wood,  Iron.  — Members  : Wall, 


CONTENTS.  vii 

Base,  Cornice,  Column-,  Apertures,  Roof,  ^itch,  Balustrade, 
Dome 182 


LECTURE  XIII. 

Architecture.  — Protective  Architecture.  — Dwellings.  — 
Farm-House.  — Cottage.  — Villa.  — Things  affecting  Dwell- 
ings. — Churches.  — Their  Character.  — Public  Buildings.  — 
Commemorative  Architecture.  — Ornament  . . . .199 


LECTURE  XIV. 

Sculpture. — Value  of  the  Sentiment  presented.  — Choice  of 
Subjects.  — Historical  Subjects.  — Man.  — Range  of  Sculp- 
ture.— Repose.  — Material.  — Pure  Form  its  only  Symbol. 

— Truths  which  this  illustrates 215 


LECTURE  XV. 

Painting.  — Truth.  — Right.  — Dignity.  — Manner  of  Treat- 
ment. — Themes.  — Man.  — Nature  — Symbols.  — Color.  — 
Light.  — Powers  requisite  in  Painters 226 


LECTURE  XVI. 

Poetry.  — Its  Nature.  — Rhythm.  — Kinds  of  Verse.  — Field 
of  Poetry.  — Classification.  — Historical  Development.  — 
Method  of  Treatment.  — Choice  of  Subjects.  — Truth.  — 
Suggestion  239 


LECTURES  ON  TASTE. 


LECTURE  I. 

MOTIVES  FOR  THE  CULTIVATION  OF  TASTE.  — DIVISION  OF 
SUBJECT.  — NATURE  OF  BEAUTY. 

There  *is  a pleasure  connected  with  every  form  of 
human  action,  and  with  almost  every  healthy  act, 
whether  it  be  physical,  intellectual,  or  moral.  In  the 
intensity  and  value  of  these  pleasures  there  is  great 
variety.  On  the  one  hand,  there  is  the  glow  of  a 
physical  system,  rapid  and  perfect  in  its  involuntary 
functions,  which,  if  not  always  itself  a distinct  and  de- 
finable enjoyment,  is  yet  the  condition  and  measure 
of  many  enjoyments ; and,  on  the  other,  the  command- 
ing pleasure  of  right  action,  which,  in  its  imperial  na- 
ture, suffers  no  comparison  or  valuation  of  itself  with 
other  pleasures.  But  not  only  has  pleasure  been  made 
the  attendant  and  additional  reward  of  healthy  action, 
though  that  action  have  sole  reference  to  utility  or 
duty,  not  only  do  the  physical  and  the  mental  ma- 
chinery include  within  them  something  of  the  play  of 
music,  but  a perception  has  been  given  us,  chief  among 
whose  objects  is  the  high  and  peculiar  enjoyment  which 
it  imparts,  — the  perception  of  beauty. 

The  fact  that  this  perception  is  one  of  the  constitu- 
1 


2 


LECTURE  I. 


ents  of  our  nature  — a universal  and  most  character- 
• istic  element  of  manhood  — would  seem  to  be  an  ade- 
quate reason  why  we  should  investigate  it,  and  the 
principles  which  control  its  action,  and  thus  see  its 
relations  to  character.  Without  adding  to  other  ac- 
quisitions this  acquisition  also,  we  cannot  fully  meet 
the  injunction,  Know  thyself ; nor  lay  broad  the  foun- 
dations of  knowledge  in  an  understanding  of  that  in- 
tellect which  is  at  once  the  recipient  and  interpreter 
of  all  knowledge  ; nor  work  into  the  structure  of  per- 
fect character  that  full  variety  of  materials  and  com- 
plement of  forces  which,  in  the  conception  of  its  Great 
Architect,  were  designed  to  make  it  the  sanctuary  at 
once  of  strength  and  beauty.  The  nature  and  relations 
of  the  perception  itself,  however,  furnish  us  additional 
reasons. 

A most  obvious  consideration  inviting  us  to  this  de- 
partment is  the  enjoyment  which  a cultivated  taste  is 
able  to  impart.  As  long  as  the  pursuit  of  pleasure  is 
so  leading  a trait  of  man’s  character,  is  so  prominent 
among  the  right  incentives  to  effort,  we  surely  need 
no  other  motive  or  justification  of  an  action  than  that 
it  repays  us  by  an  adequate  and  innocent  pleasure. 
The  gift  of  a perception,  with  so  obvious  and  primary 
a reference  to  the  enjoyment  thereby  to  be  conferred, 
marks  the  Creator’s  estimate  of  happiness,  and  severely 
rebukes  the  indolence  which  suffers  a great  faculty  to 
become  weak  by  inaction,  and  sink  from  its  function 
and  from  the  circle  of  powers.  The  peculiar  and 
abundant  pleasures  designed  to  be  conferred  upon  us 
in  this  intuition  claim  our  grateful  acceptance. 

The  very  nature,  however,  of  the  gratification  af- 
forded, and  its  relation  to  other  gratifications,  are  ad- 


INDUCEMENTS. 


3 


ditional  motives  for  its  pursuit.  It  does  not  belong 
to  our  animal  nature,  neither  to  the  appetites  or  pas- 
sions, but,  as  a higher  and  more  spiritual  enjoyment, 
can  be  thrown  into  the  balance  against  these,  and  unite 
its  forces  with  those  other  perceptions  which  release  us 
from  the  sensuous  and  passionate.  The  love  of  the 
beautiful  is  often  a powerful  auxiliary  of  virtue,  by 
engaging  the  faculties  in  an  ennobling  form  of  activ- 
ity, thus  at  once  preoccupying  the  ground  against  vi- 
cious inclinations,  and  bringing  the  mind  nearer  to  the 
yet  higher  intuitions  and  enjoyments  of  right  action. 
In  the  contest  between  the  spiritual  and  physical  which 
is  waged  in  every  man’s  nature,  beauty  arrays  itself  on 
the  side  of  the  former,  and  may  often  furnish  that  in- 
tellectual enjoyment  by  which  the  mind  is  first  brought 
within  the  calmer,  more  profound  and  abiding  pleas- 
ures which  belong  to  the  strictly  rational  intuitions. 
Beauty  is  often  the  door-keeper  to  those  charmed  pre- 
cincts within  which  are  truth  and  right. 

A fourth  reason  why  we  should  render  ourselves 
susceptible  to  the  impulses  which  arise  from  a percep- 
tion of  beauty  is,  that  they  lend  themselves  as  addi- 
tional inducements  to  our  best  action,  in  a great  vari- 
ety of  directions.  The  several  sciences  offer  for  their 
pursuit  their  own  appropriate  rewards ; but  not  unfre- 
quently  do  we  find  a most  grateful  gratuity  in  the  new 
beauties  which  they  reveal.  Beauty  is  so  inextricably 
interwoven  with  truth,  that,  when  seeking  the  last,  we 
yet  inevitably  find  the  first,  and  with  it  a new  reward 
and  motive  of  effort.  So  also  is  it  in  the  mechanical 
labors  of  life.  Our  work  lies  amid  nature  and  natural 
forces,  and  we  cannot  with  a delicate  intuition  move 
in  that  great  gallery  of  the  germs,  suggestions,  studies, 


4 


LECTURE  I. 


and  models  of  all  great  work,  without  finding  each  step 
a pleasure.  Art  may  also,  in  its  higher  forms,  become 
fine  art,  and  in  all  its  forms  call  into  requisition  the 
rudiments  of  beautiful  expression,  in  its  lines  and  out- 
lines and  surfaces.  Thus  may  pleasure  still  run  through 
all  the  wearier  passages  of  life,  the  love  of  the  beautiful 
come  in  as  a most  welcome  impulse,  and  save  our 
duties  from  becoming  wholly  mechanical,  an  irksome 
routine,  by  giving  to  them  the  elasticity  of  a rational 
sentiment.  Beauty,  then,  is  not  only  with  the  intellect- 
ual as  against  the  physical,  but  is  an  ally  in  all  worthy 
effort,  furnishing  a new  motive  to  do,  and  a new  satis- 
faction in  that  which  is  well  done. 

Allied  to  what  has  been  presented  as  motives  for  the 
cultivation  of  taste,  and  yet  from  its  character  and  im- 
portance deserving  distinct  notice,  is  the  connection  of 
beauty  with  right,  and  of  discipline  of  thought  in  one 
department  with  that  in  the  other.  The  methods  of 
reasoning  employed  in  the  discussion  of  these  two 
classes  of  questions  are  similar.  This  will  hereafter 
appear  more  plainly.  We  must  for  the  present  rest 
in  the  assertion,  that,  alike  in  ethics  and  aesthetics,  we 
are  employed  with  an  intuition  of  the  reason,  and  this, 
not  absolute  and  unchangeable,  but  varying  with  all 
the  new  circumstances  and  relations  of  each  particular 
case.  The  reasoning  processes  by  which  we  trace  the 
immediate  influences  and  remoter  results  of  action,  or 
inquire  into  its  motives  and  impulses,  and  thus  make 
ready  to  pronounce  the  judgment  of  right  or  wrong,  are 
allied  to  those  by  which  we  trace  the  uses,  the  interior 
character,  immediate  connections,  and  distant  relations 
of  an  object,  and  are  thus  able  to  decide  upon  it,  as 
beautiful  or  deformed.  This  similarity  in  the  two  intui- 


INDUCEMENTS. 


5 


tions,  and  in  the  considerations  and  reasoning  by  which 
the  way  is  prepared  for  their  judgments,  unites  them 
closely  in  their  culture. 

Beauty  also  presents  a law  to  action,  weaker  and 
more  wavering,  it  is  true,  than  the  law  of  morals,  yet 
one  whose  observance  is  a perpetual  discipline  of  the 
higher  nature,  — a perpetual  imperative  resting  on  the 
visible  life.  Beauty,  indeed,  by  an  action  of  the  per- 
verted mind  and  heart,  may  at  this  point  he  brought  in 
conflict  with  the  right,  and  displace  the  higher  law  of 
duty  with  its  own  lower  law  of  taste.  A false  analysis 
may  resolve  right  into  a certain  fitness,  and  give  to 
ethics  no  higher  obligation  than  that  imposed  by  the 
pleasures  of  good  manners  and  good  art.  But  this  very 
fact,  that  the  one  law  is  sometimes  made  to  displace  or 
obscure  the  other,  only  indicates  their  parallelism,  and 
that  beauty,  though  at  a wide  remove  beneath,  yet  pur- 
sues, in  its  influence  on  character,  the  same  direction  as 
the  right.  It  will  not  often  be  found  that  the  weaker 
law  is  strictly  and  faithfully  applied  in  all  that  pertains 
to  daily  action,  without  some  respect  and  obedience 
directly  rendered  to  the  law  of  duty.  The  observance 
of  either  of  these  rules  of  actions  will  ever  constitute  a 
preparation  for  the  observance  of  the  other. 

More  than  this,  it  is  impossible  that  beauty,  in  its 
higher  forms  and  nobler  possessions,  those  of  character, 
should  be  understood,  much  less  correctly  apprehended, 
without  a most  thorough  knowledge  and  hearty  appre- 
ciation of  the  great  law  of  character,  — the  right.  It  is 
this  which  gives  purpose  and  form,  and  thus  beauty,  to 
action.  It  is  the  vital  shaping  force  of  the  moral  world, 
and  the  beauties  of  that  world  can  no  more  be  under- 
stood without  its  recognition,  than  those  of  the  vegetable 


6 


LECTURE  I. 


and  animal  kingdoms  without  a recognition  of  the  liv- 
ing principles  which  rule  therein.  Man  must  com- 
pletely drop  out  of  that  art  which  has  not  schooled  itself 
in  his  moral  nature,  since  in  the  right  utterance  of  this 
lies  his  beauty.  A licentious  art  cannot  be  a correct 
art ; no  correct  art  can  degrade  its  object. 

Nor  would  an  art  without  ethics  simply  lose  its  prime 
figure,  man,  but  must  be  sorely  crippled  in  the  poor 
remainder  of  its  subjects.  Architecture  in  many  of  its 
forms  has  most  immediate  relation  to  worship ; and 
surely  nature,  in  her  right  representation,  most  directly 
utters  moral  and  divine  attributes,  and  addresses  our 
religious  nature.  Art,  therefore,  not  only  prepares  the 
way  for  moral  culture ; it  itself  is,  and  demands,  as  an 
indispensable  antecedent,  that  culture. 

The  amount  and  kind  of  intellectual  activity  called 
forth  commend  to  us  the  study  and  discipline  of  that 
part  of  our  nature  which  finds  play  in  the  beautiful. 
Nor  is  the  lower  motive,  if  we  still  need  it,  of  the  cash 
value  of  such  knowledge  altogether  wanting.  Good 
taste,  in  its  restricted  and  rudimental  forms,  as  a chas- 
tened fancy,  will  find  more  and  more  profitable  em- 
ployment in  all  the  mechanical  arts,  while  a frugal 
elegance  in  domestic  architecture  and  grounds  is  to 
become  a very  essential  element  of  value.  No  progress 
can  be  achieved  without  enhancing  at  every  step  the 
price  of  all  tasteful  products. 

Having  seen  some  of  the  advantages  which  attach  to 
a study  of  the  perception  and  laws  of  beauty,  our  next 
task  will  be  to  define  some  of  the  terms  most  frequently 
employed  in  this  connection,  and  mark  in  outline  the 
ground  before  us.  All  the  definition  that  we  now  re- 
quire, or  are  yet  prepared  to  give,  of  beauty,  is  that 


DEFINITION  OF  TERMS. 


7 


it  is  a certain  quality  of  things  and  acts.  Taste  is  that 
power  of  mind  by  which  we  perceive  this  quality.  Taste 
has  come  to  be  intimately  associated  with  criticism,  and 
the  last  is  often  regarded  as  only  the  application  of 
the  first  to  the  various  products  of  art.  Beauty,  though 
a leading,  is  not  the  exclusive,  object  even  of  the  fine 
arts ; there  may,  therefore,  be  qualities  in  many  pro- 
ductions besides  that  of  beauty  which  come  under  the 
discussion  of  criticism. 

Criticism,  then,  though  finding  a most  important 
criterion  of  excellence  in  the  decisions  of  taste,  is,  in 
the  rules  and  principles  of  its  judgments,  possessed  of 
a much  wider  range  than  that  of  any  single  depart- 
ment. It  is  the  application  to  products  of  the  tests 
of  excellence  in  any  or  all  directions. 

^Esthetics  and  the  science  of  beauty  may  be  regarded 
as  interchangeable  expressions.  All  that  pertains  to 
the  faculty  taste,  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  object  beauty, 
on  the  other,  to  the  action  of  the  one  or  the  principles 
determining  the  presence  of  the  other,  all  that  consti- 
tutes knowledge,  science  in  this  department,  may  be 
regarded  as  included  in  the  term  aesthetics. 

In  this  use,  the  word  has  passed  beyond  its  etymol- 
ogy, and  no  longer  has  reference  to  sensation,  nor  even 
exclusive  reference  to  the  quality  of  beauty  in  sensible 
objects,  but  equally  includes  that  quality  whether  the 
attendant  of  sensations  or  intellections.  The  original 
'force  of  the  word  only  serves  to  mark  the  great  avenue 
through  which  beauty  has  entered  the  mind,  — the  field 
which  it  has  most  habitually  and  widely  occupied.  All 
our  later  progress  must  serve  to  define  aesthetics  by 
showing  the  extent  and  kind  of  knowledge  which  be- 
long to  it  as  a science. 


8 


LECTURE  I. 


We  first  need  to  determine,  and,  as  far  as  may  be, 
to  define,  the  quality  beauty,  that  we  may  apprehend 
the  object  to  which  every  discussion  will  pertain.  Since 
beauty  has  no  absolute  existence,  but  only  exists  as 
the  quality  or  attribute  of  objects,  we  shall  inquire  to 
what  objects  it  belongs,  and  what  it  is  in  those  objects 
which  gives  it  expression.  As  the  complement  of  this 
inquiry,  we  shall  wish  to  know  the  organ,  the  faculty, 
through  which  this  quality  is  received  by  us.  Later 
we  shall  discuss  the  principles  which  determine  its 
presence  or  absence,  and,  as  a practical  application  of 
the  truths  so  established,  we  shall  treat  briefly  of  those 
arts,  termed  fine  arts,  in  which  the  principles  of  aesthet- 
ics find  fullest  employment. 

Beauty  is  the  sole  object  of  aesthetics.  No  other 
quality,  save  as  it  is  either  productive  of  this  or  tends 
to  destroy  it,  will  occupy  our  attention.  Beauty  stands 
to  aesthetics  in  the  same  relation  as  the  notion  of  right 
to  ethics : it  constitutes  the  department ; and,  how- 
ever great  the  variety  of  modifying  circumstances,  in- 
fluences, and  relations  to  be  considered,  these  all  are 
considered  in  their  bearings  on  beauty  ; the  decision 
of  every  question  is  at  this  point. 

The  ingenuity,  utility,  and  novelty  of  objects  may  en- 
hance the  interest  we  feel  in  them,  or  the  value  we  put 
upon  them ; but  these  and  kindred  qualities  need  ever 
to  be  distinguished  from  beauty,  however  intimately 
beauty  may,  in  particular  cases,  be  associated  with  them. 

In  defining  beauty,  we  say  of  it,  first,  that  it  is  a sim- 
ple and  primary  quality.  It  is  uncompounded.  No 
two  or  three  qualities  in  any  method  present  can  by 
their  combined  effects  compass  it.  No  analysis  can 
resolve  it  into  other  perceptions,  but  there  always  re- 


NOTION  OF  BEAUTY  SIMPLE. 


9 


mains  something  unresolved  and  unexplained,  which  is 
beauty.  This  is  proved  by  the  fact,  that  the  most  suc- 
cessful of  these  resolutions,  while  they  hit  on  qualities 
frequently  concomitant  with  beauty,  and  intimately 
related  to  it,  are  never  able  to  go  beyond  this  compan- 
ionship, and  show  the  identity  of  those  qualities  with 
beauty,  whenever  and  wherever  found.  Unity  and 
variety  are  qualities  usually,  I think  always,  in  some 
degree  present  in  beautiful  objects.  But  though  this 
presence  may  show  them  to  be  a condition  for  the  exist- 
ence of  beauty,  it  does  not  show  them  to  be  its  syno- 
nyme  or  equivalent.  In  fact,  we  find  that  these  qual- 
ities exist  in  very  many  things  which  have  no  beauty. 
Their  range  may  include  the  field  under  discussion, 
but  it  certainly  includes  much  more,  and  thereby  shows 
that  these  qualities  do  not  produce  the  distinguishing 
and  peculiar  effects  of  aesthetics.  Thus  is  it  with  every 
combination  of  qualities  into  which  we  seek  to  analyze 
beauty.  Either  phenomena  which  should  be  included 
are  left  unexplained,  or  phenomena  which  do  not  be- 
long to  the  department  are  taken  in  by  the  theory. 
These  analyses,  either  by  doing  too  much  or  too  little, 
indicate  that  the  precise  thing  to  be  done  has  not  been 
done  by  them,  and  only  prove  a more  or  less  general 
companionship,  and  not  an  identity  of  qualities.  It  is 
one  thing  to  show  that  certain  things,  even,  always  ac- 
company beauty,  and  quite  arfether  to  show  that  these 
always  and  everywhere  manifest  themselves  as  beauty, 
reaching  it  in  its  manifold  forms,  and  leaving  nowhere 
any  residuum  of  phenomena  to  be  explained  by  a new 
quality.  The  idea  of  beauty  has  been  with  patient 
effort  and  elaborate  argument  referred  to  association, 
thus  not  only  making  it  a derived  notion,  but  one 


10 


LECTURE  I. 


reached  through  a great  variety  of  pleasurable  impres- 
sions. It  is  plain,  however,  that  association  has  no 
power  to  alter  original  feelings,  but  only  to  revive  them. 
If  beauty  is  not,  therefore,  as  an  original  notion  or  ap- 
prehension, intrusted  to  association,  it  cannot  be  given 
by  it,  since  this  law  of  the  mind  has  no  creating  or 
transforming,  but  simply  a uniting  power.  Association 
can  explain  the  presence  of  ideas,  not  their  nature. 

On  this  theory,  beauty  must  chiefly  be  confined  to  the 
old  and  the  familiar,  since  upon  these  association  has 
acted,  and  be  correspondingly  excluded  from  the  new, 
as  not  yet  enriched  by  its  relations.  This  is  not  the 
fact.  The  beauty  of  an  object  has  no  dependence  upon 
familiarity,  but  is  governed  by  considerations  distinctly 
discernible  at  the  first  examination. 

In  individual  experience,  it  is  a matter  of  accident 
what  objects  shall  become  associated  with  pleasant,  and 
what  with  unpleasant,  memories ; and  in  community, 
association  is  as  capricious  as  fashion.  No  such  caprice, 
however,  attaches  to  the  decisions  of  taste.  A uniform- 
ity indicative  of  many  well-established  principles  be- 
longs to  these.  So  far  as  beautiful  objects  have  been 
united  by  a firm  association  with  wealth  and  elegance, 
this  association  itself  must  be  explained  by  their  prior 
and  independent  beauty ; beauty  has  occasioned  this 
permanent  preference,  and  not  a groundless  preference 
this  beauty.  The  simplicity  of  this  quality  is  seen  in 
the  presence  of  an  unexplained  and  peculiar  effect,  after 
we  have  removed  all  the  effects  which  can  be  ascribed 
to  the  known  qualities  present. 

It  is  underived.  The  primary  nature  of  beauty  pre- 
sents a question  of  some  difficulty,  since  there  are  qual- 
ities with  which  it  is  often  so  intimately  associated  that 


NOTION  OF  BEAUTY  SIMPLE 


11 


its  own  existence  in  particular  cases  is  dependent  on 
theirs,  and  within  this  limited  range  it  lias  the  appear- 
ance of  a secondary  and  subsidiary  quality.  In  many 
things,  their  relations  to  use  give  limit  and  law  to  their 
beauty,  and,  as  we  here  find  the  impression  of  beauty 
dependent  on  an  obvious  utility,  coming  and  going 
therewith,  it  would  seem  an  easy  and  correct  explana- 
tion to  refer  this  peculiar  intuition  and  feeling  to  the 
perception  and  pleasure  of  an  evident  adaptation  of 
means  to  an  end  in  the  object  before  us.  The  error  of 
such  a reference  is  clearly  seen,  however,  in  another 
class  of  cases,  in  which  this  quality  is  found  to  have  no 
such  connection  with  the  useful,  and  to  exist  in  a high 
degree  with  no  reference,  or  with  a very  obscure  and 
remote  reference,  in  the  object  to  any  use.  If  we  under- 
take to  deduce  beauty  from  any  quality  or  relations  of 
things,  however  successful  we  may  think  ourselves  in  a 
few  chosen  instances,  we  shall  find  a large  number  of  ob- 
jects which  our  theory  should  explain,  beyond  its  power. 
A more  careful  examination  of  the  very  cases  on  which 
we  rely  will  show  us,  that,  while  beauty  may  exist  with, 
it  exists  in  addition  to,  the  quality  from  which  we  would 
derive  it;  that  the  utility  with  which  it  is  associated  is 
not  a cause,  but  a temporary  condition,  of  its  existence, 
or  rather  that  the  same  relations  of  the  object  include 
and  determine  both  its  beauty  and  its  utility. 

As  it  follows,  therefore,  in  regular  sequence,  no  one 
quality  or  set  of  qualities,  we  say  that  it  itself  is  a 
primary  and  simple  quality.  There  is  involved  in  this 
assertion  an  inability  to  give  any  explanation  of  the 
attribute,  or  any  definition  of  the  word  by  which  it  is 
expressed.  It  is  compound  and  derived  things  which 
can  be  explained.  Simples  can  only  be  directly  known 


12 


LECTURE  I. 


and  felt.  Any  explanation  involves  a decomposition  of 
the  thing  explained,  a consideration  of  its  parts,  and 
thus  an  apprehension  of  it  as  a whole,  or  the  reference 
of  it  to  some  source  or  cause  whence  it  proceeded,  and 
in  connection  with  which  it  is  understood.  But  no  Sim- 
ple thing  can  be  decompounded  and  explained  through 
its  parts ; or  primary  thing  be  referred  as  a derivative  to 
something  back  of  it,  and  thus  be  explained  in  its  cause. 

Nor  is  the  word  by  which  such  simple  is  expressed 
capable  of  any  other  definition  than  that  of  a synonyme. 
A definition  must  include  one  or  more  characteristic 
and  distinguishing  qualities  by  which  the  thing  in  hand 
is  separated  from  all  others. 

But  in  the  case  of  a simple  there  is  but  one  quality, 
and  that  alone  can  be  mentioned,  and  this  is  to  name  a 
synonyme. 

All  knowledge,  therefore,  of  that  which  is  simple  and 
primary,  whether  in  perception  or  intuition,  must  be 
direct.  Mind  must  interpret  mind,  and  only  by  the 
interpretation  of  similar  faculties  can  this  class  of  prop- 
erties be  apprehended.  Certain  original  perceptions 
and  intuitions  must  be  granted  us  as  the  basis  of  every 
defining  and  explanatory  process,  and  explanation  can- 
not go  back  of  its  own  postulates  to  throw  light  upon 
starting-points.  Senses  and  faculties  directly  conver- 
sant with  qualities  the  same  for  all,  are  these  postulates. 
All  simple  and  primary  notions  and  attributes  are  di- 
rectly known  through  these  faculties,  and  the  language 
which  expresses  them  is  only  explicable  to  those  who 
have  the  key,  the  chart,  of  kindred  faculties.  The  term 
beauty  is  susceptible,  then,  of  no  definition,  and  the 
quality  beauty  of  no  further  knowledge  and  explanation 
than  that  which  the  very  power  by  which  we  perceive, 
feel,  know  it,  is  able  to  give. 


REASONABLE. 


13 


The  conditions  and  relations  of  such  an  attribute 
may  still  invite  our  attention.  Nor  does  the  simple 
and  primary  character  of  beauty  exclude  our  second 
assertion,  which  is,  that  this  quality  is  reasonable , that 
is,  a quality  for  whose  existence  a reason  can  be  ren- 
dered. Certain  other  qualities  occasion  it  to  exist, 
and  these  may  be  pointed  out.  Right  is  a primary 
quality,  yet  all  our  judgments  of  right  proceed  on  cer- 
tain premises  which  sustain  them,  and  which  can  be 
rendered  as  a reason  why  we  suppose  this  character- 
istic of  action  present.  Thus  beauty,  when  present, 
is  so  through  causes  which  can  be  more  or  less  dis- 
tinctly assigned,  and  is  not,  like  the  properties  of 
matter,  merely  known  to  be,  without  any  knowledge 
of  that  which  occasions  them  to  be.  The  proof  of  this 
is  in  the  fact  that  there  are  questions  of  beauty,  by 
the  concession  of  all,  admitting  and  calling  forth  dis- 
cussion ; that  men  not  only  discuss  points  of  taste,  but 
are  persuaded  by  the  reasonings  employed.  Indeed, 
if  it  were  as  true  of  intellectual  as  of  physical  "tastes, 
that  there  is  no  disputing  concerning  them,  our  whole 
department  would  be  at  once  annihilated,  and  fall  back 
among  the  things  incapable  of  explanation  and  knowl- 
edge. Our  progress,  and  the  propriety  of  every  effort 
toward  progress,  rest  on  the  assertion,  that  beauty  is  a 
subject  of  reasoning,  and  is,  in  its  existence,  reasonable. 
The  important  and  pregnant  nature  of  this  assertion 
will  more  and  more  appear  as  we  advance,  and  its 
truth  will  be  involved  in  the  very  fact,  that,  following 
in  the  steps  of  all  who  have  preceded  us,  we  make  evi- 
dent that  we  regard  beauty  as  a reasonable  quality,  by 
actually  reasoning  concerning  its  existence  and  the 
manner  of  its  action. 


LECTUEE  II. 


EXPRESSION  THE  SOURCE  OF  BEAUTY.  — KIND  OF 
EXPRESSION. 

Though  the  simple  and  primary  nature  of  beauty 
excludes  all  analysis  and  derivation,  it  does  not  shut 
us  off  from  an  inquiry  for  those  things  which  mark, 
limit,  or  are  in  any  way  the  conditions  of  its  exist- 
ence. In  pursuing  our  effort,  therefore,  to  apprehend 
and  restrict  as  far  as  possible  this  quality,  we  find,  as 
the  first  condition  of  its  presence,  expression,  — the 
utterance  in  visible  or  conceivable  form  of  some  thought 
and  feeling.  In  such  forms  alone  is  the  incarnation  of 
beauty,  and  without  them  it  has  no  individual  and  lo- 
calized. existence.  The  thought  and  feeling  which  have 
entered  into  the  composition  of  any  object,  and  which 
there  find  expression,  are  not  its  beauty,  for  they  still 
preserve  their  own  nature  and  characteristics,  and  may 
be  known  and  felt  without  the  entrance  to  the  mind  of 
that  higher  intuition  and  emotion  occasioned  by  beauty ; 
nay,  more,  they  may,  in  many  objects,  exist  dissevered 
from  this  quality.  These  thoughts  and  feelings  are 
rather  the  basis,  the  substance,  of  which  beauty  is  a 
new  attribute.  The  strength  of  an  oak  may  be  dis- 
cerned, and  its  long  and  successful  struggle  with  the 
winds,  without  the  impression  of  beauty  arising,  though 
these  are  the  very  things  which  once  seen  in  the  oak 
secure  or  enhance  that  impression.  An  apprehension 


EXPRESSION  THE  SOURCE  OF  BEAUTY. 


15 


of  subsidiary  qualities,  even  in  their  more  expressive 
forms,  often  exists  with  little  intuition  of  the  beauty 
which  belongs  to  them,  and  when  this  attribute  is  seen, 
it  implies  the  action  of  a new  faculty  taking  cognizance 
of  a new  quality.  A peach  may  be  known  so  far  as 
it  effects  all  the  other  senses,  and  yet  not  be  known 
to  the  sense  of  smell;  and  when  we  discover  that  the 
impression  of  fragrance  is  only  made  by  those  peaches 
that  are  ripe,  we  do  not  thence  infer  that  ripeness  and 
fragrance  are  the  same  thing,  but  that  fragrance  is  a 
newly  discovered  quality  of  a ripe  peach.  So,  in  the 
action  of  the  reason,  is  beauty  a newly  discovered 
quality  of  an  object  expressive  of  thought  and  feeling. 

Expression,  without  being  beauty,  is  that  in  objects 
which  alone  gives  them  beauty ; and  those  things  and 
conceptions  alone  are  beautiful  which  are  expressive. 
Right  is  an  attribute  of  intelligent  and  free  action,  and 
of  nothing  else.  There  must  be  an  action,  and  intel- 
ligence and  freedom  must  belong  to  that  action,  before 
there  can  be  discerned  in  it  this  new  intuition,  right. 
An  act  is  one  thing,  freedom,  intelligence,  and  right 
are  three  distinct  qualities  ; but  two  of  these  must  be 
present  in  any  act  before  that  is  found  in  which  the 
third  can  inhere.  Right,  then,  demands,  as  the  basis 
of  its  existence,  as  that  to  which  it  can  alone  belong, 
action  free  and  intelligent,  though  freedom  and  intel- 
ligence are  conceptions  wholly  distinct  from  the  right. 
Truth  belongs  to  a proposition.  This  we  may  figura- 
tively say  is  the  substance  of  which  truth  is  a quality. 
Not  that  every  proposition  possesses  it,  but  that  propo- 
sitions alone  can  possess  it.  There  must  be  an  asser- 
tion before  there  can  be  a truth.  The  assertion  is 
separable  from  the  truth  of  the  assertion,  though  the 


16 


LECTURE  II. 


first  is  the  condition,  the  substance  of  the  last.  Thus 
is  it  with  the  expression  in  objects  which  are  beautiful. 
An  object,  ideal  or  real,  must  be,  and  thought  and  feel- 
ing must  belong  to  that  object,  before  we  have  the  basis 
to  which  beauty  may  belong.  These,  however,  may 
exist  without  beauty,  and  when  beauty  exists  with  these, 
it  exists  as  something  in  addition  to  them.  That  there 
must  be  some  object,  either  in  imagination  or  fact, 
either  in  substance  or  in  action,  to  which  beauty  may 
belong  before  we  can  possess  this  quality,  none  will 
deny,  since  there  is  no  abstract,  but  only  a concrete 
existence  possible  to  the  beautiful.  Nor  is  it  difficult 
to  prove  that  there  must  also  be  present  in  this  object 
some  thought  and  feeling.  If  there  is  no  thought 
contained  in  it,  the  object  is  meaningless,  without  de- 
signed relations  within  itself,  or  with  the  objects  about 
it.  It  can,  hence,  excite  no  definite  feeling,  since  it 
has  given  no  direction  to  the  intellect,  and  can  only 
be  an  object  of  total  indifference.  If  beauty  could 
attach  to  such  an  object,  it  would,  as  an  emotion,  be 
wholly  irrational,  since  -utterly  unable  to  give  for  it- 
self any  reason,  or  assign  to  itself  any  law  or  mode 
of  existence.  By  the  supposition,  the  object  called 
beautiful  is  vacant  of  all  thought,  and  hence  of  all 
significant  relations,  and  can  in  itself  furnish  no  ground 
for  any  reasonable  emotion.  We  might  call  an  object, 
within  the  sense  of  taste,  sweet  or  sour,  or  pronounce 
it  to  the  sense  of  smell,  fragrant  or  offensive,  since 
these  are  sensations  which  demand  no  other  explana- 
tion than  the  mere  naked  presence  of  an  object.  We 
have  no  such  insight  into  the  properties  of  matter,  as 
either  to  anticipate  what  will  be  its  effect  on  these 
organs  of  sensation,  or  to  render  a reason  for  that 


EXPRESSION  THE  SOURCE  OF  BEAUTY. 


17 


effect  after  it  has  occurred.  Sensations  are  not  rea- 
sonable in  the  sense  that  any  reason  can  be  given 
why  the  object  present  should  so  affect  the  sense. 
Any  object,  therefore,  how  little  soever  the'  knowledge 
may  be  which  we  may  possess  of  it,  may  occasion  these, 
since  sensations  exist  without  any  assignable  reason  for 
them  save  the  mere  presence  of  an  object. 

We  are  not  asked  why  an  apple  is  sour,  nor  do  we 
render  any  reason  to  ourselves  for  its  making  this  im- 
pression upon  us.  We  are  asked,  on  the  other  hand, 
why  we  regard  an  object  as  beautiful,  and  often  seek 
for  our  own  satisfaction  the  precise  qualities  and  re- 
lations which  occasion  this  impression.  Beauty,  unlike 
a sensation,  is  a reasonable  emotion.  We  confirm  or 
abandon  our  opinion  through  reasons  rendered,  and 
ever  feel  that  there  is  something  in  the  object  we  think 
beautiful  which  occasions  our  judgment,  and  would 
justify  it  to  others,  if  by  a successful  analysis  we  could 
rightly  reach  and  present  it.  We  always  feel,  and  are 
often  able  to  express,  that  in  an  object  which  makes 
it  beautiful.  That  which  has  in  it  no  expression  can- 
not give  rise  to  a reasonable  emotion  because  it  can 
furnish  no  justification  or  explanation  of  it,  and  we 
should  be  compelled  to  abandon  the  emotion  the  in- 
stant its  validity  should  be  questioned. 

That  expression  in  objects,  the  thought  and  feeling 
contained  in  them,  is  the  basis  of  beauty,  is  also  shown 
15y  the  fact,  that  precisely  as  any  object  is  rich  in  ap- 
propriate expression  does  it  become  beautiful.  Inor- 
ganic matter  has  in  it  comparatively  little  thought,  little 
work  which  is  the  obvious  realization  of  thought,  and 
hence  it  is  relatively  feeble  in  beauty.  It  may  exist 
in  grand  dimensions,  and  express  power ; in  regular 


18 


LECTURE  II. 


arrangements,  and  express  the  truths  of  mathematical 
figure  ; in  brilliant  and  transparent  gems,  and  ally  itself 
to  light  in  its  pure,  quickening  character,  and  thus 
obtain  that  utterance  which  makes  it  beautiful.  But 
it  is  only  as  an  aggregating,  arranging,  cleansing  work 
is  seen  to  have  been  done  in  it,  by  which  it  ceases  to 
be  simply  inert,  passionless,  unshaped  matter,  that  it 
gains  expression,  and  with  it  beauty.  A brilliant  sun- 
set is  indeed  wonderful  in  the  multiplicity  and  variety 
of  its  suggestions,  but  only  in  proportion  as  the  mind 
is  open  to  these,  and  affluent  in  its  receptive  powers, 
will  it  apprehend  or  feel  the  true  character  of  the  scene. 

Organic  matter,  both  vegetable  and  animal,  presents 
a new  and  most  subtle  power.  Form  now  becomes 
everywhere  definite  and  peculiar.  A complexity  of  parts 
and  members  is  yet  reconciled  in  an  obvious  simplicity 
by  the  unity  of  the  individual.  All  relations,  both  of 
members  within  the  organism  and  of  the  organism  to 
that  which  is  without  it,  become  determinate,  fixed,  and 
important.  Plan  is  more  rigid,  design  is  more  appar- 
ent, labor  more  severe  and  complete,  and,  paradoxical 
as  it  may  seem,  liberty  and  variety  more  obvious,  in 
the  ease  and  felicity  of  every  new  adaptation  within 
the  stern  limits  which  the  principle  of  life  everywhere 
assigns  itself.  This  all  is  but  the  presence  of  more  ex- 
pression, the  embodiment  in  the  plant  and  animal  of 
more  thought,  more  purpose  and  interest.  We  find 
the  variety,  universality,  and  depth  of  beauty  propor- 
tionately increased,  and  that,  as  the  department  of  life 
has  been  made  richer  in  all  that  expresses  the  imme- 
diate presence  of  mind,  so  is  it  correspondingly  richer 
in  objects  of  taste. 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  trace  further  this  connec- 


EXPRESSION  THE  SOURCE  OF  BEAUTY. 


19 


tion  of  expression  and  beauty  in  rational  life,  so  ob- 
vious is  it.  In  man  we  have  not  only  the  thought 
which  God  has  wrought  into  his  marvellous  constitu- 
tion, but  he  himself  is  a second  centre  and  source  of 
thought.  Through  that  complex,  varied,  and  most  ex- 
pressive organ,  the  countenance,  and  through  action, 
thought  and  feeling  are  finding  a constant  manifesta- 
tion. If  these  are  a condition  of  beauty,  we  should 
expect  to  find  those  features  which  are  the  seat  of  a 
rational  spirit,  and  that  character  which  is  its  most  im- 
mediate product,  the  high  places  of  beauty.  Nor  are 
we  disappointed.  Of  all  sensible  objects,  the  human 
countenance  has  received  the  most  profound  admira- 
tion, and  of  ideal  objects,  character,  as  uttered  in  fea- 
ture and  act,  has  been  the  latest  and  severest  study. 

That  expression  in  objects  is  the  occasion  of  beauty 
is  further  shown  in  the  forms  which  art  presents  and 
assumes.  The  painting  is  primarily  judged  by  the 
thought  which  it  proffers,  by  the  nature  and  character 
of  the  emotion  it  contains.  Says  Ruskin  : u Greatness 
of  style  consists,  in  the  habitual  choice  of  subjects  of 
thought  which  involve  wide  interests  and  profound  pas- 
sions. Style  is  greater  or  less  in  exact  proportion  to 
the  nobleness  of  the  interests  and  passions  involved  in 
the  subject.  A natural  disposition  to  dwell  oil  the 
highest  thoughts  of  which  humanity  is  capable  consti- 
tutes a painter  of  the  highest  order.”  No  painting  can 
be  beautiful  without  expression ; — and  no  criticism  is 
so  sweeping  and  destructive  as  to  say,  of  any  product 
of  art,  it  is  meaningless,  destitute  of  language.  Archi- 
tecture struggles  by  magnitude  to  introduce  a sense  of 
power,  and,  by  its  broken  and  changing  outline,  a sense 
of  fulness  and  variety  of  resources.  A search  after 


20 


LECTURE  II. 


feeling  and  thought  as  lurking  in  all  that  is  beautiful 
is  everywhere  apparent  in  poetry.  Simple  description 
never  satisfies  an  impassioned  nature.  It  penetrates 
appearances,  reaches  for  the  expression  in  its  objects, 
and  lights  its  own  emotion  by  the  emotion  therein  con- 
tained. Of  this  all  fine  poetry  is  a perpetual  example. 

“ With  cowslips  wan,  that  hang  the  pensive  head, 

And  every  flower  that  sad  embroidery  wears.” 

“ Mountains  on  whose  barren  breast, 

The  laboring  clouds  do  often  rest.” 

“ Thus  sang  the  uncouth  swain  to  th’  oaks  and  rills, 

While  the  still  mom  went  out  with  sandals  gray.” 

“ I hate  the  dreadful  hollow  behind  the  little  wood, 

Its  lips  in  the  field  above  are  dabbled  with  blood-red  heath, 

The  red-ribbed  ledges  drip  with  a silent  horror  of  blood, 

And  echo  there,  whatever  is  asked  her,  answers  ‘ Death.’  ” 

“ I come  from  haunts  of  coot  and  hem, 

I make  a sudden  sally, 

And  sparkle  out  among  the  fem, 

To  bicker  down  a valley.” 

“We  parted:  sweetly  gleamed  the  stars, 

And  sweet  the  vapor-braided  blue, 

Low  breezes  fanned  the  belfry  bars, 

As  homeward  by  the  church  I drew. 

The  very  graves  appeared  to  smile, 

So  fresh  they  rose  in  shadowed  swells ; 

‘ Dark  porch,’  I said,  and  ‘ silent  aisle,’ 

There  comes  a sound  of  marriage  bells.” 

If,  then,  art  is  judged  by  the  emotion  which  it  raises, 
and  if  its  aim  is  to  comprehend  and  bring  out  the  emo- 
tive power  of  all  that  it  presents,  it  is  evident  that  art 
at  least  perpetually  recognizes  the  truth,  that  expression 
is  the  condition  of  the  existence  of  beauty.  We  have 
hitherto  said,  that  thought  and  feeling  are  the  basis  of 
beauty.  It  is  evident  that  this  is  not  true  of  all  thought 
and  feeling.  We  wish  now,  therefore,  to  restrict  the 


KIND  OF  EXPRESSION. 


21 


proposition  still  further,  and  show  more  definitely  the 
kind  of  expression  required. 

The  inquiry  upon  which  we  now  enter  is  one  of  more 
difficulty.  So  many  and  varied  are  the  emotions  which 
directly,  or  by  more  remote  association,  are  contained 
in  beautiful  objects,  that  it  is  not  easy  to  divide  them 
into  classes,  or  affirm  of  them  any  common  characteris- 
tics. As  feeling  does  not  arise  except  on  an  occasion 
furnished  in  some  appropriate  object,  and  as  this  object 
involves  an  intellectual  apprehension,  we  have  coupled 
the  words  thought  and  feeling  as  the  two  elements  of 
expression.  It  is  only,  however,  those  thoughts  which 
awaken  definite  emotions,  which  do  not  tarry  in  the  in- 
tellect, but  call  forth  the  feelings  that  claim  our  atten- 
tion. A mere  truth  as  such  is  not  the  basis  of  beauty, 
but  only  that  truth  which  is  the  occasion  and  companion 
of  feeling.  If  we  know  the  kind  of  feeling  which  must 
be  found  in  objects  termed  beautiful,  we  therein  know 
the  thought,  since  thought  is  sufficiently  defined  by  the 
feeling  to  which  it  gives  rise. 

As  beauty  itself  occasions  a pleasant  emotion,  it  might 
seem  safe  to  say,  that  those  feelings  which  give  rise  to  it 
must  also  be  pleasurable.  This,  however,  is  not  a cor- 
rect inference,  since  emotions  unpleasant  to  their  subject 
are  not  always  displeasing  to  the  beholder.  Sympathy 
with  suffering,  sadness  in  view  of  a deranged  moral  sys- 
tem, remorse  under  a sense  of  personal  guilt,  are  all 
unpleasant  emotions  as  felt,  though  often  grateful  as 
witnessed.  We  are  not,  therefore,  at  liberty  to  draw  so 
general  a conclusion  as  this,  that  only  pleasant  feeling 
will  be  the  basis  of  beauty ; much  less  the  conclusion, 
that  all  pleasant  feeling  will  give  rise  to  this  quality. 


22 


LECTURE  H. 


So  far  as  any  vicious  indulgence  is  a source  of  pleasure, 
it  is  an  object  of  hearty  reprobation,  and  in  whatever 
object  presented  will  fail  to  gratify  a correct  taste.  In 
this  direction  is  it,  however,  that  we  may  find  a general 
clew  to  guide  us. 

In  the  inorganic  world,’  we  reach  expression  only  as 
there  is  an  approach  to  order  and  form,  only  as  the 
creative  power  is  seen  to  go  further  than  naked  exist- 
ence, to  shape  into  something  that  which  has  been  made, 
to  bring  out  of  mere  material  a workmanship  with  its 
interior  and  exterior  relations,  with  its  qualities  and 
uses.  Those  things  which  mark  the  presence  of  a 
power  which  aims  not  only  to  do,  but  to  perfect  that 
which  it  does,  to  unite  it  by  mutual  ministrations  into 
a whole,  and  to  carry  it  on  in  a growth  of  powers  to  a 
nobler  service  and  more  inclusive  end,  give  expression 
and  beauty  to  a world  which  were  otherwise  a heap  of 
fragments,  a chaos  of  uncompounded  elements.  All, 
then,  in  the  inorganic  world  which  speaks  the  presence 
of  a creative  and  arranging  thought  is  fitted  to  give 
pleasurable  emotion. 

Sometimes  this  comes  out  in  a mode  of  action,  in  an 
obscure  relation  of  forces,  in  that  which  is  only  discerni- 
ble and  apprehensible  through  the  protracted  action  of 
the  intellect.  It,  when  reached,  presents  itself  as  a 
truth,  and  gives  us  the  pleasure  of  a new  truth.  Ocean 
currents  are  of  this  character.  The  eye  never  takes 
them  in,  the  imagination  feebly  constructs  them,  the 
mind  alone  conceives  them,  and,  as  the  result  of  its  re- 
search, receives  the  impression  of  contrivance  and  wis- 
dom. At  other  times,  the  progress  in  the  formative 
thought  is  open  to  the  sense,  as  it  were,  is  seen  imme- 
diately present  in  an  object  controlling  and  shaping  it. 


DEPENDENCE  OF  BEAUTY  ON  KNOWLEDGE. 


23 


Such  an  object  presents  itself  as  beautiful,  and,  while 
engaging  the  intellect,  acts  most  directly  and  strongly  on 
the  emotions.  The  veining  of  marble  lies  in  the  sense 
simply,  needs  no  effort  of  comprehension,  and  leaves  the 
mind  open  to  receive  its  expression. 

Anything  in  the  inorganic  world  which  indicates  re- 
gression and  opposition  is  in  itself  not  pleasant  and 
not  beautiful.  From  the  dust  of  all  decomposition  the 
thought  escapes,  and  with  it  the  beauty.  The  chains 
which  bind  these  are  order  and  composition.  That,  then, 
in  the  inorganic  world  which  pleases,  and,  when  obvi- 
ously presented,  gives  rise  to  beauty,  is  progress  in  plan, 
something  more  given  to  the  mind,  a fresh  realization, 
by  which  the  chaotic  becomes  the  created,  and  the  cre- 
ated the  perfected.  All  reverse  movement,  though  for 
the  time  being  expressive,  as  quickly  destructive  of  ex- 
pression, is  painful.  The  limitation  which  this  state- 
ment requires  will  appear  hereafter. 

It  is  evident,  that,  with  growth  in  knowledge,  the 
thought  contained  in  things  will  become  more  apparent, 
less  the  object  of  investigation,  and  more  of  intuition, 
and  that,  concurrent  with  this  change,  much  beauty  be- 
fore concealed  will  become  patent  to  the  observer.  The 
previous  discipline  of  the  person  must  often  determine 
whether  many  things,  both  in  art  and  in  nature,  will  be 
•regarded  as  beautiful.  Thought  which  is  partially  con- 
cealed, through  a want  of  an  intimate  knowledge  of  its 
appropriate  signs,  may  laboriously  occupy  the  intellect 
without  much  quickening  feeling,  while  familiarity  with 
truth  and  that  which  expresses  it  may  make  a scene  or 
an  object,  mute  to  most,  a lively  revelation.  Much 
beauty,  both  in  art  and  nature,  is  the  result  of  a direct 
perception  of  what  was  first  reached  through  protracted 
study. 


24 


LECTURE  II. 


When  we  pass  into  the  region  of  life,  the  relations  of 
things  become  more  definite,  and  the  principle  we  have 
partially  traced  becomes  clearer  in  its  manifestations. 
The  plant  and  the  animal  have  in  them  a new  force  far 
in  advance  of  all  that  have  preceded  it,  much  more  dis- 
tinct and  determinate  in  the  form  to  which  it  gives  rise, 
involving  much  subordinate  action,  various  parts  and 
functions  within  itself,  various  dependencies  and  duties 
without  itself. 

The  plant  and  the  animal,  containing  within  circunw 
scribed  limits  a most  complex  and  successful  plan,  with 
nothing  superfluous  or  deficient,  are  much  more  purely, 
immediately,  and  sensibly  the  product  of  thought  than 
matter.  The  progress  of  creative,  formative  power  is 
here  strongly  marked,  and  with  this  increase  of  expres- 
sion, the  inquiry  recurs,  What  kind  of  expression  is  the 
basis  of  beauty  ? and  the  answer  to  be  given  is  essen- 
tially that  already  given  in  inorganic  matter. 

That  which  marks  the  action  of  a vigorous,  vitalizing 
power,  which  indicates  the  easy  and  perfect  control 
of  the  living  force  over  all  the  matter  within  its  reach, 
transforming,  purifying,  coloring,  and  arranging  it  by 
its  own  subtile  efficiency,  awakens  the  feeling  of  beauty. 
Many  of  the  processes  of  life,  its  various  organs,  the 
relations  of  these,  and  the  function  of  each,  are  matters 
for  the  intellect,  requiring  careful  investigation,  and  are 
presented  to  the  mind,  not  as  immediately  seen  in  the 
object,  but  as  learned  to  be  in  it  through  the  mind’s  ac- 
tion. The  internal  organs  of  the  animal  are  a subject  for 
protracted  study,  and  the  mind  may  take  great  satisfac- 
tion in  the  truths  reached ; but  there  is  usually  in  them 
no  opportunity  for  such  direct  perception  of  fitness  in 
form  and  completeness  of  office  as  to  excite  the  idea  of 


UGLINESS. 


25 


beauty.  Those  plants  and  animals  are  deemed  beauti- 
ful, the  symmetry  of  whose  compacted  parts,  the  felicity 
of  whose  distinct  members,  and  whose  adaptation  to 
their  method  of  life  and  local  surroundings,  are  clearly 
discerned.  Increased  knowledge  is  always  found  to 
enlarge  the  number  of  objects  regarded  as  beautiful, 
because  it  enlarges  the  qualities  and  relations  which 
perception  gives  to  the  mind.  Anything  which  the 
mind  comes  to  see  as  obviously  indicating  the  presence 
^md  perfect  control  of  the  vital  power,  as  the  place, 
color,  form,  or  action  assigned  a member,  it  will,  unless 
overruled  by  some  unfavorable  association,  regard  as 
beautiful.  Some  animals,  as  the  horse  and  lion,  present 
themselves  at  once  with  a life  so  compact,  forceful,  and 
symmetrical  in  its  members,  so  evidently  within  the 
animal’s  own  wielding,  as  to  be  instantly  pronounced 
of  all  beautiful.  The  fish,  on  the  other  hand,  needs  to 
be  interpreted  by  the  element  in  which  it  moves ; and, 
at  play  in  the  water,  by  its  agility  and  adroitness,  by  the 
evident  mastery  of  the  vital  force  over  these  new  condi- 
tions, it,  too,  becomes  beautiful. 

If  any  plant  or  animal  is  regarded  as  ugly,  it  is,  — 
(a.)  Because  in  the  individual  case  there  is  some 
deficiency,  some  falling  short  of  the  generic  type,  by 
which  weakness  of  the  vital  principle,  a partial  triumph 
of  inorganic  tendencies  is  indicated  ; or, 

(6.)  Because  the  plant  or  animal  is  not  seen  in  its 
true  element  or  position,  and  thus  is  not  truly  seen, — 
seen  in  the  adaptation  and  relation  of  its  parts ; or, 

( c .)  Because  some  association  overrules  the  mind 
in  its  judgment. 

We  shall  speak  of  each  of  the  three  occasions  of  ugli- 
ness, and  shall  find  them  to  proceed  on  the  principle 

3 


26 


LECTURE  II. 


already  presented,  that  beauty  is  present  in  all  the 
obviously  successful  products  of  a creative,  formative 
power. 

In  the  first  case  of  ugliness,  the  words  by  which  we 
must  frequently  characterize  it  — awkward,  overgrown, 
one-sided,  deficient,  deformed  — all  indicate  some  em- 
barrassed action  of  the  living  force ; that  it  has  not 
completely  vitalized  and  controlled  the  material  which 
it  has  taken  within  its  action ; and  that  this  inability 
to  execute  its  plan,  this  stammering  and  falling  short 
in  the  utterance  of  its  message,  give  pain.  The  fact 
also,  that  any  disease  or  decay  in  the  plant  is  so  much 
more  offensive  than  any  deficiency  in  the  inorganic 
world,  and  that  deformity  and  decomposition  in  the 
animal  are  still  more  offensive  than  in  the  plant,  show 
with  what  increase  of  feeling  we  value  and  cherish  these 
higher  products  of  creative  power,  and  with  what  sen- 
sible emotion  we  see  them  slipping  back  from  the  van- 
tage-ground once  gained  by  them.  The  victories  of 
life  we  joy  in  ; the  victories  of  death  we  mourn  over. 

Of  the  second  form  of  ugliness,  — that  belonging  to 
a plant  or  animal  out  of  its  place,  — sea-plants  and 
water  birds  often  furnish  an  illustration. 

The  vegetation,  seemingly  half  inorganic,  which  hangs 
like  matted  hair  on  the  brow  of  some  rock  from  which 
the  tidal  wave  has  for  a moment  withdrawn,  would,  in 
its  dull  colors,  flatulent  stems,  and  unusual  forms, 
hardly  be  thought  to  possess  any  excellence  ; but  when 
the  ocean  has  returned  to  these  plants,  and,  opening 
their  ranks  and  spreading  their  foliage,  they  stand  in 
the  deep  sea-green,  a mimic,  flexible  forest,  pulsing, 
not  to  the  winds,  but  the  waters,  few  can  fail  to  call 
them  beautiful. 


SUMMATION. 


27 


The  heron  among  land  or  air  fowls  seems  to  be 
lengthened  out  of  all  proportion  and  adaptations,  and 
to  be  utterly  destitute  of  every  grace  ; but  when  seen 
in  the  marsh  stalking  amid  its  tall  reeds  or  wading 
the  sluggish  stream,  shooting  its  reed-like  neck  and 
strong  bill  as  a flint-headed  arrow  after  its  prey,  the 
effect  is  very  different.  The  sense  of  beauty  is  present 
when  the  design  is  seen. 

The  third  form  of  ugliness,  which  will  be  found  to  in- 
clude cases  not  already  explained,  arises  from  association. 
Of  this  we  give,  as  an  example,  the  pelican.  The  pouch 
of  this  animal  will  be  felt  to  make  it  a homely  bird. 
Though  the  intellect  may  fully  understand  the  office  of 
this  appendage,  and  its  adaptation  thereto,  it  still  allies 
itself  in  the  senses  to  that  which  is  inorganic  or  dis- 
eased. It  seems  an  empty  sack  without  vitality,  or  an 
unhealthy  tumor,  and  the  intellect  cannot  overrule  so 
strong  and  universal  an  association.  In  some  animals, 
their  dishonorable  office  and  localities  prejudice  us, 
and  in  others,  their  real  or  supposed  noxious  qualities. 
Our  ignorance,  our  superstitions  and  early  impressions, 
will  evidently  be  fruitful  sources  of  these  destructive 
associations. 

From  what  has  been  presented,  we  think  we  are  enti- 
tled to  advance  as  a general,  if  not  as  an  absolute 
truth,  the  assertion,  that  the  kind  of  expression  in  the 
organic  kingdom,  which  is  the  basis  of  beauty,  is  that 
of  a perfecting  vital  power.  In  proportion  as  this  vital 
force  is  complete,  controlling  the  material,  form,  color, 
and  arrangement  of  its  products,  putting  its  seal  upon 
every  particle,  is  the  product  beautiful.  The  easy,  am- 
ple, accurate  way  in  which  the  organic  end  is  reached, 
the  mastery  of  resources  and  delicacy  of  finish,  which 


28 


LECTURE  II. 


mark  a power  in  love  with  its  labor,  are  here  the  insig- 
nia of  that  perfection  we  term  beauty.  We  have  still 
further  to  speak  of  the  moral  world,  and  the  reflex  in- 
fluence which  this  must  exert  on  that  below  it.  It  is 
sufficient  for  the  present  to  have  shown  that  beauty 
is  found  with  order  in  the  inorganic,  and  with  life  in 
the  organic  world. 


LECTURE  III. 


BEAUTY  IN  MAN.  — THE  EFFECT  OF  SIN.  — REFLEX  INFLUENCE 
OF  MIND  ON  PHYSICAL  BEAUTY. 

We  have  one  more  important  step  to  take  in  answer- 
ing the  question,  What  kind  of  expression  is  the  occa- 
sion of  beauty  ? to  point  that  out  in  rational  action,  in 
character,  which  gives  rise  to  this  emotion.  We  have 
seen  beauty  on  the  side  of  truth  and  life,  we  shall  now 
see  it  on  the  side  of  right.  In  order  to  understand 
what  is  uttered  by  God  in  man,  and  what  is  uttered  by 
man  in  his  own  actions,  we  need  to  know  man  in  his 
spiritual  and  intellectual  nature.  As  an  organic  being, 
as  an  animal,  he  has  organic,  animal  beauty ; but  so 
wholly  is  this  part  of  his  nature  overshadowed  by  his 
higher  endowments,  that  no  mere  flush  and  fulness  of 
physical  life  can  meet  or  fill  our  idea  of  beauty  in  man. 

The  human  body  is  not  simply  a living  body,  but  the 
soul’s  instrument : the  face  is  not  merely  the  seat  of  all 
surface  senses,  but  a translucency  in  whose  shadows 
come  and  go  the  reflections  of  a spiritual  life.  The 
symbols  of  thought  and  signs  of  feeling  which  are 
found  in  man  and  in  man’s  action,  to  be  at  all  appre- 
hended, must,  therefore,  be  understood  in  their  relation 
to  the  superior  spiritual  powers  and  duties  which  lie 
back  of  them.  No  cheap  excellency  of  color  and  form, 
of  grace  and  courtesy,  is  permitted  unto  man.  Much 
has  been  given  unto  him,  and  much  must  be  required 


30 


LECTURE  m. 


of  him.  Mere  delicacy  and  symmetry  of  features,  if 
not  displeasing,  have  little  power  to  arrest  the  atten- 
tion, and  none  to  refresh  the  heart. 

What  is  highest  in  man  must  be  discovered,  and  this 
must  rule  out  that  which  is  base  and  overrule  that 
which  is  inferior.  Anything  in  feature  or  act  which 
reveals  a lower  impulse  triumphing  over  a higher,  and 
which  so  presents  itself  to  the  spectator,  cannot  be 
deemed  pleasing,  cannot  be  deemed  beautiful.  A work 
must  be  commendable  and  noble  before  it  can  be  beau- 
tiful, and  that  which  speaks  of  degradation  and  bond- 
age must,  to  every  mind  attuned  to  health  and  free- 
dom, be  painful.  We  are  not  prepared  for  a high  ideal 
of  manly  beauty  till  we  possess  a high  idea  of  man,  — 
till,  having  brought  him  up  in  the  worth  of  character, 
we  show  him  in  feature  and  act  for  that  which  he  is. 
We  need  not  stop  to  insist,  that  to  enthrone  the  phys- 
ical in  man,  either  in  the  baser  form  of  a rounded  and 
lusty  contour,  or  in  the  nobler  form  of  bone  and  sinew, 
is  to  overlook  the  spiritual,  — to  sink  it  in  the  simply 
organic,  — is  to  make  men,  not  a little  lower  than  the 
angels,  but  a little  higher  than  the  brutes,  — is,  not  to 
establish  the  divine  in  the  flesh,  but  to  smother  the  di- 
vine with  the  flesh,  — is  to  extinguish  the  torch  which, 
burning  behind  the  tracery,  reveals  its  divine  pattern. 

Nor  is  the  danger  less  certain,  though  less  extreme, 
in  regarding  man  as  pure  intellect,  — in  watching  and 
striving  to  trace  only  the  workings  of  thought.  The 
larger  share  of  life  is  not  in  thinking,  but  in  feeling ; 
the  better  share  of  life,  not  in  right  thinking,  but  in 
right  feeling.  It  is  not  truth  latent  in  thought,  but 
patent  in  the  character,  — truth  passing  into  the  heart, 
and  thence,  through  the  will,  into  that  only  great  product 


INTELLECTUAL  conditions  of  beauty. 


31 


of  man,  conduct,  — that  gives  pleasure.  Man  may  not 
only  think  the  truth,  but  feel  it,  and  build  himself 
upon  it;  and  these  his  higher  prerogatives  we  demand 
shall  in  some  form  or  other  be  brought  out  before 
we  accord  the  praise  of  spiritual  beauty.  That  which 
is  highest  in  man  is  a loving  apprehension  of  the  true 
and  the  right,  and  that  which  is  highest  in  conduct  is 
the  victory  of  these  over  error  and  wrong.  That,  then, 
gives  us  pleasure  in  man  as  man,  which  is  the  mark 
of  a spirit  loyal  to  truth  and  right.  Treachery  and 
desertion  here  are  a meanness  for  which,  if  truly  under- 
stood, nothing  can  atone.  In  these  two  intuitions  is 
discerned  the  progress  of  the  creative  plan  in  man,  and 
we  insist  that  there  should  be  no  regression.  That  in 
expression  which  conceives  and  realizes  this  progress  is 
the  basis  of  spiritual  beauty ; that  is,  beauty  resting  on 
spiritual  qualities.  He  only  who  apprehends  strongly 
and  clearly  the  new  type  of  creation  furnished  in  man, 
and  what,  therefore,  is  to  be  looked  for  in  a being 
lifted,  within  the  realm  of  truth  and  right,  can  either 
fully  understand  or  powerfully  present  the  signs  of 
manly  character,  and  thus  of  manly  beauty.  As  in  the 
inorganic  and  organic  kingdoms,  the  line  of  beauty 
runs  parallel  with  that  of  order  and  creation,  so  here 
we  have  a new  spiritual  creation,  and  a new  spirit- 
ual order  is  demanded. 

Before,  weakness,  decay,  and  death  were  the  deform- 
ing agents;  but  here  ignorance,  — for  ignorance  is  the 
weakness  of  this  realm,  — error,  and  vice  are  these 
agents,  and  on  whatever  these  put  their  seal,  there  is 
seen  that  discomfiture  of  reason,  that  defeat  of  virtue, 
which  is  true  deformity. 

In  the  beauty  which  belongs  to  man,  lower  organic 


32 


LECTURE  III. 


beauty  is  included,  gathered  up  as  an  element,  yet  a 
secondary  and  feeble  element,  with  that  which  is  broad- 
er, fuller,  and  nobler.  That  expression  which  Ruskin 
terms  the  appearance  of  felicitous  fulfilment  of  func- 
tion in  living  things  may  still  be  present,  but  is  no 
longer  first  or  second  in  importance,  and  is  modified 
and  overborne  by  the  temper  of  the  spiritual  and  in- 
tellectual life. 

Not  chiefly,  however,  does  the  human  body  claim  to 
be  recognized  in  its  own  beauties,  but  much  more 
imperatively  in  its  own  rights.  It  may  show  service 
strongly  and  freely  rendered,  but  not  service  exacted 
in  ascetic  rigor.  By  far  the  most  painful  expression 
in  man  is  that  which  shows  a servant  enthroned,  the 
license  and  debauchery  of  appetite,  the  malignity  of 
insane  passion,  the  whole  man  put  to  vile  and  wicked 
uses.  This  is  a temple  desecrated,  — an  altar  with  an 
impure  sacrifice,  — violence  in  the  seat  of  mercy.  Only 
secondary  to  this  is  the  rigor  of  asceticism,  finding  a 
grim  pleasure  in  the  waste  and  squalor  it  has  created. 
Though  a despotic  and  harsh  rule  of  mind  over  body 
can  never  so  repel  us  as  the  usurped  dominion  of  the 
unclean  lusts,  — harpies  of  the  flesh,  — yet  both  imply  an 
intestine  and  most  unhappy  warfare,  in  which  victory 
on  either  side  is  the  pillage  and  devastation  of  a portion 
of  man’s  inheritance.  To  the  mind  that  understands 
these  signs  of  a civil,  a domestic  feud,  they  must  be 
disagreeable.  Guarding  against  the  one  danger,  we 
say  that  the  body  should  show  service  performed,  not 
government  by  it  exercised.  The  steed,  though  foam- 
ing, must  be  reined,  and  not  a runaway.  The  mind 
must  animate,  pleasurably  animate,  and  powerfully  con- 
trol every  member  and  feature  of  the  body.  Faithful 


THE  BODY  IN  ITS  RELATIONS  TO  THE  MIND. 


33 


service,  fidelity,  is  the  body’s  highest  honor,  and  it  must 
know  and  make  known  that  it  is  the  pliant  instrument 
of  an  honored  master. 

Guarding  against  the  other  danger,  we  say  the  body 
may  show  use,  but  not  abuse.  Self-torture  is  not  to  be 
disguised  under  the  name  of  self-rule,  nor  is  it  to  be 
hinted  that  there  is  a necessary  and  radical  hostility  be- 
tween the  constituents  of  man’s  nature.  The  physical 
is  not  to  be  the  victim  of  the  spiritual,  the  body  is  not 
to  be  burned  out  or  dissolved  away  in  the  laboratory  of 
thought.  It  is  not  over  the  decay  and  ashes  of  organic 
structure  that  mind  is  to  reign,  but  over  its  most  per- 
fected product,  nor  alone  over  it,  but  in  it  and  with  it, 
finding  often  the  measure  of  its  own  strength  in  that  of 
its  physical  instrument. 

In  seeking,  therefore,  for  that  expression  in  man 
which  is  the  basis  of  beauty,  the  body  must  be  regarded, 
not  as  a living  thing  simply,  but  as,  in  all  its  complex 
functions,  the  organ  of  spirit,  and  in  it  there  must  be 
sought  the  signs  of  perfect  and  felicitous  control  by  an 
agent  itself  in  spiritual  health.  That  which  is  unhealthy 
in  the  mind  or  in  its  action  on  the  body  cannot,  so  far  as 
discerned,  give  the  impression  of  beauty.  It  is  regres- 
sion and  failure,  weighing  us  down  with  a sense  of 
defeat. 

A fact  comes  in  here,  however,  which  must  always 
greatly  modify  our  views  of  that  which  is  beautiful  in 
the  world  and  in  man,  — the  fact  of  sin.  The  spirit  is 
in  a real,  though  not  a necessary  and  inherent,  conflict 
with  the  body,  or,  as  we  now  designate  it,  the  flesh. 
The  virtue,  and  therefore  the  beauty  of  man,  ceases  to 
be  the  virtue  of  repose.  There  are  necessarily  in  him, 
when  most  victorious,  traces  of  the  battle,  and  we  are 


34 


LECTURE  III. 


no  longer  displeased,  therefore,  with  that  which  shows 
the  subtile,  strong  workings  of  evil,  if  only  it  is  evil  sub- 
dued. 

We  shall  mark  the  effect  on  taste  of  this  knowledge 
of  conflict  in  human  virtue  in  several  directions. 

(a.)  The  body  is  suffered  to  show  marks  of  severity, 
to  bear  visible  traces  of  its  crucifixion  under  the  spirit, 
and  this,  because  we  all  know  it  a restive  and  treacher- 
ous servant. 

As  we  have  seen  its  guilt,  we  are  not  startled  or  of- 
fended by  its  manacles.  Though  still  withdrawing  from 
angelic  and  perfect  natures  any  appearance  of  struggle, 
we  yet  know  that  struggle  is  and  must  be  present  in 
man,  and  are  not  displeased  with  evidences  in  the  body 
of  stern  discipline  and  unceasing  rule.  It  is  remem- 
bered that  victory  is  always  to  the  defeated  severity, 
and  in  the  pale  and  attenuated  features  there  is  a wil- 
lingness to  see  the  triumph  of  a better  impulse.  Every 
human  face  is  searched  for  traces  of  the  conflict,  and 
we  expect  there  something  of  the  stern  regimen  of  the 
battle-field.  Great  scope  is  here  given  amid  the  shift- 
ing phases  of  passion  for  the  development  of  partial 
good,  of  power  regained,  though  not  held  with  the  re- 
pose of  untempted  virtue. 

(A)  As  a result  of  this  conflict,  strength,  and  even 
sternness  of  will,  are  sought  in  expression.  As  man’s 
career  is  or  should  be  a prolonged  resistance,  a persist- 
ent toil,  as  crime  and  obstacles  are  to  be  surmounted, 
temptations  to  be  overcome,  and  dangers  to  be  met, 
nothing  but  will  can  take  a firm  stand  or  push  a deter- 
mined advance.  We  often  recognize,  therefore,  with 
pleasure,  in  human  expression  that  which  is  rough  and 
rugged,  that  which  is  firm  and  forcible,  since  in  these 


CONFLICT  IN  HUMAN  VIRTUE. 


35 


virtue  may  find  a citadel  and  guilt  a retribution.  So 
conscious  is  man  every  moment  of  the  need  of  strength, 
and.,  above  all,  of  the  strength  which  can  say  no  to  pas- 
sion, that  will  is  ever  felt  to  he  the  very  framework  of 
character,  and  we  care  not  if  it  occasionally  lie  on  the 
surface  in  massive  ribbed  strength. 

(c.)  This  sense  of  a present  and  most  urgent  strug- 
gle makes  us  less  content  than  ever  with  simple  intel- 
lect in  expression.  We  demand  that  every  man  should 
take  a part,  and  show  the  right  part  which  he  has  taken 
in  this  conflict. 

Our  distrust  and  fear  of  men,  the  dangerous  depths 
of  the  race  lie  in  feeling,  in  passion,  and  in  purpose ; 
and  no  one  stands  revealed  in  the  manner  of  his  man- 
hood, till  revealed  at  these  points.  We  wish,  therefore, 
to  see  the  breaking  out  of  character,  — the  utterance, 
not  of  truth  merely,  but  of  one’s  heart  toward  the  truth. 
Pure  thinking  is  a disguise,  — an  abstraction ; we  wish 
to  see  the  disclosed,  — the  concrete  man  as  he  is  and 
feels. 

( d .)  A sense  of  the  sternness  of  the  conflict  between 
rule  and  anarchy  — between  right  and  wayward  ten- 
dencies in  man  — makes  every,  even  the  slightest  indica- 
tions, and  those  too  of  a partial  victory,  pleasurable. 
Symmetrical  and  stalwart  virtue  is  too  much  to  be  often 
anticipated,  and  the  feeble  appearance  of  single  graces, 
like  the  putting  forth  of  early  flowers  amid  frosts  and 
snow,  brings  pleasure.  It  is  the  hard  rule  of  winter 
which  gives  to  the  spring  a loveliness,  not  lost  even 
when  contrasted  with  the  luxuriance  of  the  later  sea- 
son. It  is  the  desert  desolation  of  a sordid  and  selfish 
heart  that  imparts  such  grace  to  all  human  virtue,  and 
makes  it  more  rare  and  enviable  than  angelic  excel- 


86 


LECTURE  HI. 


lence.  This  acceptance  which  feeble  and  partial  things 
find  in  man  greatly  increases  the  variety  of  expression, 
and  thus  of  beauty  found  in  character.  If  ideal  per- 
fection were  in  each  instance  requisite,  character  must 
soon  .cease  to  include  that  which  was  new,  to  modify  or 
exclude  that  which  was  old.  Every  happy  stroke  and 
correct  delineation  would  be  a new  limitation  from 
which  we  could  not  depart,  and  our  perfection  would 
be  lost  in  the  monotony  of  its  own  excellence.  The 
infinite  may  be  unchangeable,  and,  as  ever  eluding  the 
grasp  of  man,  preserve  its  scope.  The  finite,  made  un- 
changeable, dies  at  once,  and,  fortunately,  in  the  very 
weakness  of  its  perceptions  and  powers,  finds  a reason 
for  that  infinite  variety  which  is  nevertheless  infinite 
deficiency. 

(e.)  Another  result  of  the  known  and  universal  pres- 
ence of  evil  is,  that  in  a complex  whole  characters 
of  unmitigated  meanness  or  malice  are  suffered  to 
appear.  As  no  pain  is  given  by  those  signs  which  in 
the  individual  indicate  a temptation,  if  it  be  a tempta- 
tion resisted,  — a passion,  if  it  be  a passion  ruled,  — so, 
in  the  group,  a Shy  lock  or  an  Iago  may  be  present,  if 
Shylock  be  baffled  and  self-tortured,  and  if  to  Iago 
there  “ remains  the  censure  of  a hellish  villain.” 

Evil,  which  in  the  individual  stood  represented  by  an 
untamed  impulse,  in  the  drama  and  novel,  presenting  a 
more  formidable  and  compact  power,  takes  possession 
of  its  agents,  and  through  them  pushes  to  the  quick 
the  champions  and  martyrs  of  virtue.  As  the  field  is 
broader,  the  sin  is  broader,  and  marshals  its  own  dis- 
tinct forces.  While,  therefore,  we  still  may  take  no 
pleasure  in  villany  as  villany,  yet,  as  vanquished  vil- 
lany,  as  that  which  has  raised  virtue  into  valor,  it 


PRESENCE  OF  GUILT. 


37 


plays  a most  essential  part,  — makes  life  soul-stirring 
and  tragic,  and  is  the  dark,  retreating  cloud  along 
whose  gilded  edges  the  now  dominant  light  shows  all  its 
brilliancy.  Avarice,  envy,  and  malice  are  not  less  de- 
formed and  deforming;  but  we  need  the  contrast  of 
their  depths,  to  give  height  to  our  virtue,  — the  strength 
of  the  evil,  to  measure  the  power  of  that  good  which 
has  subdued  it. 

The  same  principle,  however,  applies  to  the  group  and 
the  narrative  as  to  the  portrait  and  the  biography.  The 
preponderance  — the  settling  of  the  scales,  both  of  jus- 
tice and  of  power  — must  be  with  virtue,  — must  so  be 
as  to  mark  the  presence  of  a true  and  irresistible  spirit- 
ual power.  Otherwise,  our  better  impulses,  baffled  and 
deserted,  fall  back  in  despair  on  themselves,  or  rise  up 
to  reject  the  lie.  Treason  and  the  halter,  villany  and 
judgment,  are  as  consonant  as  fidelity  and  success,  cour- 
age and  victory.  Whatever  may  be  the  transient  rela- 
tion of  things,  we  have  patience  to  wait,  if  the  issues 
indicate  that  there  is  power  with  truth,  and  that  there 
is  a growth  into  moral  order,  though  the  foundations 
of  that  order  be  laid  in  the  hard,  unchipped  granite 
of  justice. 

It  is  evident,  with  the  perverted  and  shifting  sense 
of  right  which  belongs  to  men,  there  will  be  endless 
variety  in  what  they  will  term  beautiful.  They  may 
choose,  in  the  play  or  the  painting,  to  overlook  leading 
tendencies  and  radical  issues,  to  fix  the  attention  on 
minor  points,  and,  on  the  basis  of  these,  to  pronounce 
the  work  beautiful.  They  may  refuse  to  see  a portion 
of  the  expression,  and,  exalting  another  portion,  distort 
their  judgment ; or,  incapable  of  discovering  the  under- 
current of  truth,  of  understanding  the  combined  voice 


88 


LECTURE  m. 


of  the  whole,  the  parts  may  be  a dull  or  melancholy 
medley.  But  where  there  is  no  concealment,  and  no 
distortion  through  a limited  or  perverted  perception,  it 
is  evident  the  healthy  heart  will  only  receive  pleasure 
from  that  expression  which  is  healthy,  and  that  the  false, 
the  morbid,  the  faithless,  can  never  be  to  it  the  basis  of 
beauty.  Each  of  these  imply  a spiritual  disease,  and 
when  distinctly  seen  produce  the  impression  of  deform- 
ity or  ugliness.  A man’s  estimates  of  beauty  in  the 
moral  world  can  neither  pass  much  beyond  or  fall  much 
below  his  virtue.  It  is  this  which  indicates  his  appre- 
hension of  the  relations,  the  law,  the  order,  the  inferi- 
ority and  superiority,  the  better  and  the  worse,  which 
belong  to  spirit,  and  hence  of  the  excellency  which  is 
possible  to  it.  But  this,  his  judgment  of  virtue,  once 
shaped,  the  beauty  of  all  action  is  thereby  determined, 
and  the  mind  refuses  to  take  pleasure  in  that  which  to 
it  indicates  weakness  and  a failure  of  thought  and  spirit, 
— the  very  energies  whose  action  was  to  be  displayed. 

(/.)  It  also  results  from  the  presence  of  evil,  that  we 
take  pleasure  in  the  manifestation  of  certain  emotions, 
which  are  in  themselves  painful,  and  indicate  a desertion 
of  right  impulses,  such  as  remorse  and  shame.  These 
are  the  last  efforts  of  defeated  virtue,  the  pulsations 
which  indicate  the  presence  of  life  and  the  possibility  of 
its  return.  They  come  in,  therefore,  to  redeem  the 
terror  of  a death  which  otherwise  hastens  to  be  perfect. 
Remorse  ought  to  be,  shame  ought  to  be,  and  we  are 
glad  to  see  that  this  last  law  which  remains  to  guilt  is 
unbroken.  In  the  sad  though  not  unkind  climate  of 
this  world,  shame  and  penitence  have  a renewing,  fruc- 
tifying power,  are  themselves  the  bursting  bud  of  virtue. 
Pity  and  sadness  are  gentler  emotions  in  the  same  man- 


REFLEX  ACTION  OF  MAN  ON  NATURE. 


39 


ner  begotten  and  justified  by  the  fact  of  evil.  Every 
man  quick  in,  his  perception  and  sensitive  in  his  feel- 
ings, must  find  an  only  too  frequent  occasion  for  them, 
and  whenever,  therefore,  rightly  expressed,  they  will 
kindle  the  subdued  pleasure  of  sympathy.  Even  the 
grief  of  virtue  has  in  it  a tincture  of  joy. 

As  the  fruit  of  this  discussion,  we  say  that,  in  this 
human  world,  that  expression  alone  will  be  to  any  mind 
beautiful  which  indicates  to  it  the  felicitous  action  of 
the  powers  at  work ; that  the  notion  of  what  constitutes 
success  must  vary  greatly  with  the  intelligence  and 
virtue  of  the  beholder ; and  that  a sense  of  conflict  and 
resistance  modifies  all  our  judgments. 

It  was  to  be  expected  that  more  pleasure  should  be 
felt  in  organic  than  in  inorganic  beauty,  and  in  human 
beauty  than  in  either,  since  here  is  the  higher  *work, 
the  fuller  expression,  the  more  immediate  and  personal 
interests.  So  true  is  this,  that  what  has  been  said  of 
beauty  in  the  fields  of  physical  and  vital  forces  would 
be  but  a very  partial  presentation,  were  we  not  now  to 
trace  the  reflex  action  of  human  feeling  on  all  that  na- 
ture presents.  Though  the  rock  and  the  lichen,  the 
mountain  and  the  forest,  are  valued  for  what  they  in- 
trinsically contain,  they  often  have  a much  higher  power 
from  a certain  sympathy  which  is  established  between 
them  and  man,  by  which  he  does  not  so  much  receive 
what  they  nakedly  present  as  invest  them  with  some 
of  his  own  attributes  and  relations,  and  cause  them  to 
reflect  his  own  feelings.  Not  that  nature  is  a simple 
sounding-board  to  the  soul  of  man,  sending  back  to  him 
anything  he  may  choose  to  utter,  but  that,  through  the 
eager  interpretation  of  his  own  heart,  he  is  able  to  dis- 
cover in  her  something  of  the  same  conflict  which  he 


40 


LECTURE  Itl. 


experiences  in  himself,  — to  rejoice  in  the  achievements 
of  her  productive  power  as  a triumph,  to  mourn  over  her 
failure  and  decay  as  a new  breaking  out  of  the  serpent 
virus,  to  feel  the  hope  of  her  smile  and  the  life  of  her 
summer,  the  dejection  of  her  frown  and  the  despair  of 
her  bitter  cold. 

Owing  to  this  shadowing  forth  of  his  own  states  in 
the  states  of  nature,  many  things  give  pleasure  to  man 
which  would^otherwise  have  no  power  to  gratify. 

(&.)  Power  simply  destructive,  like  that  of  the  earth- 
quake and  tornado,  and  apparently  including  a vio- 
lent regression,  may  still  excite  the  feeling  of  sublimity. 
Thoroughly  conscious  of  his  own  weakness  and  of  the 
necessity  of  power  as  the  basis  of  all  good,  nothing 
moves  man  more  deeply  than  its  manifestations ; most 
pleasurably  as  well  as  most  profoundly  when  it  is  power 
in  the  service  of  creative  wisdom  and  love  ; yet  pro- 
foundly when,  wild  and  wayward,  it  seems  for  the  mo- 
ment the  breaking  out  of  superabundant  and  uncon- 
strained strength.  When  the  spectator  is  not  pressed 
into  terror  by  the  too.  immediate  presence  of  a danger- 
ous agency,  its  action  does  not  rest  upon  the  mind 
simply  as  wilful,  cruel  destruction,  only  the  more  inex- 
plicable and  horrible  as  it  is  the  more  extended.  If 
this  were  its  impression,  the  sense  of  power  wofild  be 
overruled,  as  in  the  merciless  sack  of  a city,  and  the 
only  feeling  excited  would  be  that  of  horror. 

More  often,  the  mind  either  looks  beyond  its  apparent 
or  immediate  effects,  as  in  the  case  of  the  storm,  and 
feels,  amid  all  its  wrath,  the  presence  of  a remedial 
agency  ; or  it  sees  in  it  the  image  of  justice,  and,  cloth- 
ing it  with  retribution,  finds  its  sense  of  moral  order 
met ; or,  it  regards  this  work  of  devastation  as  the  fin- 


PHYSICAL  DESOLATION. 


41 


ishing  up  and  sweeping  away  of  the  old,  about  to  give 
place  to  the  new.  In  all  these  cases,  the  feeling  of  power 
is  left  to  operate  upon  the  soul,  and  work  therein  its 
own  sense  of  elevation.  Those  agencies,  however, 
which  speak  a language  of  pure  violence,  of  retreat  and 
ruin,  can  only  terrify  and  repel. 

(7>.)  Scenes  of  desolation,  worn  and  wasted,  which, 
for  their  physical  and  organic  expression,  would  not  be 
beautiful,  may  nevertheless  be  so  through  their  rela- 
tion to  man,  — their  expression  of  moral  truth.  The 
ruined  city,  amid  the  heaping  sands  of  the  desert, 
may  be  a most  forcible  utterance  of  the  liabilities,  — the 
transient  character  of  human  work,  — of  the  fate,  the 
issues,  of  nature  as  locked  up  in,  and  subordinate  to, 
those  of  man. 

We  have  already  seen  how  abundant  and  ever-present 
in  man  is  the  wild,  the  dark,  and  the  sad  ; and  these,  by 
an  inevitable  sympathy,  will  draw  with  them  that  which 
is  wild,  dark,  and  sad  in  nature.  The  courage  of  our 
mariners,  the  endurance  of  our  heroes,  the  faith  of  our 
explorers,  must  be  measured  by  severe  tests,  and  these 
will  be  found  in  the  angry  ocean,  the  relentless  desert, 
and  inexorable  polar  ice.  There  must  be  the  rock  and 
cavern  for  the  hermit  and  saint  of  sackcloth,  the  wilder- 
ness for  the  prophet  with  camel’s  hair  and  leathern 
girdle.  In  fine,  as  man’s  scale  of  healthy  feeling  ranges 
from  exultant  joy  to  sadness,  from  the  quick  and  merry 
peal  of  pleasure  to  those  deeper,  slower  chords  which 
would  have  never  been  strung  but  for  sin,  — there  must 
be  in  that  nature  which  is  to  enter  in  as  a subdued  and 
harmonized  chorus,  — which  is  to  make  the  whole  a 
concord,  — the  same  variety  of  emotion.  Thus  is  it 
that  the  unfinished  and  waste  places  of  nature,  tuer 


42 


LECTURE  III. 


weakness,  and  the  decay  of  her  organic  structures,  may 
often  be  as  expressive  as  what  was  before  termed  her 
felicitous  fulfilment  of  living  functions. 

( c .)  We  before  saw  that  variety  in  man  implied  a 
deficiency,  which  yet,  through  our  sense  of  his  finiteness, 
gave  no  offence.  We  shall  also  accept  and  rejoice  in 
much  in  the  world  about  us,  which,  viewed  from  one 
point,  might  indicate  desertion  and  unfinished  work. 
The  rock-ribbed  mountain,  though  rent,  rugged,  and 
barren,  rightly  stands  over  against  the  exuberant  life  of 
the  valley,  for  there  is  in  it  another  line  of  action,  — a 
new  record  of  power,  and  a sterner  sense  of  conflict.  It 
is  not  in  the  towering  forest  alone  that  we  delight,  but 
in  the  feebler,  but  not  less  perfect,  victory  of  the  violet. 

( d .)  What  we  may  term  our  ideal  of  any  plant  or 
animal  is,  by  this  sympathy  of  men  with  effort  and  a 
mission  fulfilled,  greatly  modified.  It  is  not  always  the 
tree  that  is  most  luxuriant,  nor  the  flower  which  is  larg- 
est and  most  complete,  which  has  the  most  power  over 
the  heart.  The  tree  which,  in  the  very  track  of  storms, 
stands  furthest  out  on  the  lean  soil  of  sterile  rocks,  the 
forlorn  hope  of  the  vegetable  kingdom,  may  move  us 
more  than  the  indolent,  glutted  occupant  of  the  meadow. 
The  delicate  dwarfed  flower  that  has  earliest  felt  the 
touch  of  spring,  and,  first  to  escape  the  yielding  winter, 
has  crept  from  amid  the  snows,  a weak  but  joyful  har- 
binger of  the  yet  distant  summer,  has  a voice  of  watch- 
ing and  hope  not  to  be  heard  again  from  all  the  loiter- 
ing ranks  of  spring  or  autumn. 

Says  Ruskin  : “ The  first  time  that  I saw  the  Solda- 
nella  A/pina  before  spoken  of,  it  was  growing  of  mag- 
nificent size  on  a sunny  Alpine  pasture  among  bleating 
of  sheep  and  lowing  of  cattle  associated  with  a pro 


IDEAL  OBJECTS. 


43 


fusion  of  Geum  montanum  and  Ranunculus  Pyrenceus. 
I noticed  it  only  because  new  to  me,  nor  perceived 
any  peculiar  beauty  in  its  cloven  flower.  Some  days 
after,  I found  it  alone  among  the  rack  of  the  higher 
clouds  and  howling  of  glacier-winds,  and,  as  I de- 
scried it,  piercing  through  an  edge  of  avalanche,  which, 
in  its  retiring,  had  left  the  new  ground  brown  and 
lifeless,  and  as  if  burned  by  recent  fire ; the  plant  was 
poor  and  feeble,  and  seemingly  exhausted  with  its 
efforts,  but  it  was  then  that  I comprehended  its  ideal 
character,  and  saw  its  noble  function  and  order  of 
glory  among  the  constellations  of  the  earth. 

“ The  Ranunculus  glacialis  might  perhaps  by  cultiva- 
tion be  blanched  from  its  wan  and  corpse-like  paleness 
to  purer  white,  and  won  to  more  branched  and  lofty 
development  of  its  ragged  leaves.  But  the  ideal  of 
the  plant  is  to  be  found  only  in  the  last  loose  stones  of 
the  moraine,  alone  there ; wet  with  the  cold,  unkindly 
drip  of  the  glacier-water,  and  trembling  as  the  loose 
and  steep  dust  to  which  it  clings  yields  ever  and  anon, 
and  shudders  and  crumbles  away  from  about  its  roots.’’ 

Something  allied  to  this  is  seen  in  our  estimate  of 
the  coarser  and  more  strongly-colored  flowers  of  Fall. 
The  aster  and  the  golden-rod  will,  when  compared  with 
the  spring-beauty  and  the  early  anemone,  hardly  bear 
the  plucking.  But  the  position  assigned  them  is  very 
different ; and,  standing  where  nature  placed  them,  amid 
the  rougher,  bolder  work  of  autumn,  the  full-grown 
grass,  the  rank  weeds,  and  the  reddening  shrubbery, 
they  greatly  enrich  the  scene  and  make  gorgeous  the 
decadence  of  the  year. 

The  discovery  of  a place  occupied,  an  office  per- 
formed, is  felt  to  be  a new  pleasure  in  any  object. 

(e.)  The  most  important  reflex  action  of  the  nature 


44 


LECTURE  HI. 


of  man  on  the  nature  below  it  is  that  by  which  a moral 
quality  is  widely  imparted  to  beauty.  We  wish,  not 
only  to  see  thought  and  skill,  but  these  employed  in 
the  ministration  of  love.  Sensitive  organism,  to  be 
beautiful,  must  ever  by  its  action  secure  its  own  pleas- 
ure. The  happiness,  the  good  of  the  thing  created 
must  present  itself  as  habitually  and  perseveringly  in- 
cluded in  the  creative  plan.  Thus,  the  moral  charac- 
ter of  the  Creator  stands  revealed  in  his  work,  and 
the  mind  seeks  for,  and  chiefly  delights  in,  that  revela- 
tion, as  we  before  saw  it  to  delight  in  the  open  and 
healthy  action  of  man’s  moral  nature.  It  is  never  for- 
gotten that  benevolence  should  pre-eminently  belong 
to  God,  and  that  the  love  which  enters  into  his  crea- 
tion and  providence,  showing  him  everywhere  the  only 
untiring  benefactor,  is  our  best  hope  and  promise.  The 
mind  taught  in  the  region  of  human  action  looks  on 
everything  as  a disclosure  of  character  on  the  part  of 
the  Divine  agent  whose  work  it  is,  and  thus  directly 
transfers  to  every  beautiful  as  to  every  excellent  object 
a feeling,  — the  feeling  which  in  the  heart  of  God  gave 
rise  to  it,  and  shaped  it.  No  wise  action  is  without • 
its  end,  its  significance,  its  moral  quality. 

The  first  thing  which  we  have  now  pointed  out  as  the 
basis  of  beauty,  as  the  substance  in  which  it  inheres, 
is  expression.  This  expression  has  also  been  defined  in 
the  inorganic  world  as  the  manifest  presence  of  a crea- 
tive, formative  thought,  — as  advancing  truth;  in  the 
organic  world,  as  the  successful  and  the  pleasurable 
fulfilment  of  vital  functions,  — as  advancing  life,  which 
also  is  the  advance  of  higher  truth  ; in  the  rational 
world,  as  the  acceptance  of  the  law  of  reason,  the  ad- 
vance, the  victory,  of  the  right,  and  this,  too,  in  the 
midst  of  conflict. 


LECTURE  IV. 


SECOND  CONDITION  OF  BEAUTY,  UNITY.— UNITY  AND  VARI- 
ETY EXPLAINED.  — SUBLIMITY.  — ABSOLUTE  AND  RELATIVE 
BEAUTY. 

Beauty  is  not  a primary,  direct  quality  of  things. 
There  are  not  certain  things  to  the  exclusion  of  others 
which  have  this  as  a property,  as  some  fluids  are  cor- 
rosive and  some  volatile.  This  quality  may  be  gained 
or  lost  by  an  object  with  each  change  of  arrangement  in 
its  parts.  It  is  not  inherent  in  the  thing,  but  belongs 
to  the  aptness  and  power  of  the  thing  in  its  present  form 
or  present  office.  It  is  not  a constituent  of  the  matter 
making  a rose,  but  arises  from  the  transient  relation 
and  expression  which  that  matter  has  assumed.  Virtue 
is  not  a quality  of  all  action  nor  of  the  same  action  in 
all  circumstances,  but  only  of  actions  which  stand  in  a 
certain  relation  to  the  person  performing  them  and  the 
persons  affected  by  them.  In  like  manner,  the  lower 
virtue  of  beauty  is  taken  up  and  lost  with  the  expres- 
sion in  which  it  inheres.  Expression  we  have  there- 
fore given  as  the  first  condition  in  the  object  of  beauty, 
— as  that  in  things  and  actions  which  gives  rise  as  a 
cause  to  beauty,  — which  furnishes  the  true  substance  of 
which  beauty  is  a quality.  A second  condition  of  beauty 
is  unity,  or,  as  expressed  on  both  sides,  unity  and  vari- 
ety. This  is  not  something  in  addition  to  the  expression, 
but  is  the  method  of  the  expression,  — the  form  which 


46 


LECTURE  IV. 


utterance  assumes.-  Expression  is  found  in  the  beauti- 
ful object,  and  found  there  under  the  form  of  unity. 
The  object,  that  it  may  be  beautiful,  is  conditioned  to 
expression  ; the  expression  is  conditioned  to  unity. 

Unity  is  one  of  the  most  widely  recognized  criterions 
of  beauty,  and  has  sometimes  been  confounded  with 
that  to  which  it  so  often  gives  rise. 

But  the  unity  of  a thing  is  to  the  mind  a wholly  dis- 
tinct and  separable  quality  from  its  beauty,  and  will  not 
be  found  necessarily  to  include,  or  uniformly  to  involve, 
the  rarer,  richer  attribute.  The  general  recognition, 
however,  of  unity  in  all  distinctively  beautiful  objects, 
while  failing  to  show  its  identity  with  the  higher  expres- 
sion, yet  helps  to  mark  it  as  an  antecedent,  a condition 
thereof. 

The  unity  to  which  reference  is  now  had  is  not  that 
of  office,  as  the  concurrence  of  wheels  in  a machine,  nor 
is  it  the  unity  of  mere  existence  in  the  same  place  or 
time,  but  the  harmony  of  expression  by  which  the  parts 
of  *an  object  unite  in  producing  and  deepening  a single 
feeling.  It  is  a harmony  of  emotions,  as  music  is  a 
harmony  of  sounds,  and  implies  no  direct  resemblance, 
much  less  sameness,  in  the  objects  between  which  it 
exists,  in  the  means  by  which  it  is  produced.  Unity 
implies  plurality,  variety,  and  designates  that  concurrent 
power  of  the  parts  by  which  they  become  in  their  action 
on  the  mind  a whole,  lending  themselves  to  a single 
effect.  The  absolute  unit,  — the  one,  — cannot  be  the 
source  of  beauty,  for  it  has  in  it  no  obvious  revelation 
of  thought  or  feeling.  It  includes  no  relation,  and  as 
contemplated  alone  stands  in  no  relation. 

The  mind  of  man  does  not  penetrate  essences,  does 
not  perceive  power  or  wisdom  in  simple  existence  ; it  is 


VARIETY  NECESSARY. 


47 


only  in  the  mode  and  relations  of  that  existence  that  he 
discovers  these.  It  is  the  correspondence  and  ministra- 
tion of  parts,  the  presence  of  an  office  or  function,  and 
the  ability  to  meet  that  function  ; the  compacting  of  vari- 
ous members  into  symmetrical  wholes  ; the  obvious  ref- 
erence of  each  thing  to  something  without  itself,  called 
an  end ; a relating  and  ordering  in  reference  to  each 
other  of  things  which  exist,  — that  mark  for  man  the 
presence  of  thought. 

We  must  go,  therefore,  beyond  the  unit  before  we 
have  anything  fitted  to  reveal  a plan,  a purpose,  a power, 
to  the  intellect,  and  thus  move  the  feelings. 

Indeed,  long  before  our  analysis  reaches  the  final  unit, 
things  become  too  barren  of  relation  to  make  the  im- 
pression of  beauty.  A straight  line,  a limited  section 
of  the  most  graceful  curve,  a single  color,  though  each 
letters  in  the  alphabet  of  beauty,  as  yet  uncompounded 
into  intelligible  expression,  teach  nothing  and  secure 
nothing.  A fine  pigment  that  lies  unshapen  on  the  pal- 
ette impresses  the  eye,  but  not  the  intellect ; it  is  bril- 
liant, but  not  beautiful : transferred  to  the  canvas,  it  as- 
sumes form,  relation,  office,  and  entering  the  region  of 
thought,  may  now  claim  for  itself  a rational  attribute, — 
beauty. 

Since,  therefore,  thought  is  brought  out  in  relations, 
and  not  in  naked  existence,  we  must  have  these  rela- 
tions— that  is,  plurality,  variety  — before  we  can  have 
any  strictly  rational  feeling.  Some  degree  of  complex- 
ity is  the  indispensable  condition  of  thought,  and  of 
those  emotions  which  spring,  not  from  perception,  but 
apprehension. 

Beauty,  truth,  and  right  inhere  in  objects,  proposi- 
tions, and  actions,  not  directly  as  qualities  inhere  in 


48 


LECTURE  IV. 


things,  but  in  them  as  subjects  of  thought : the  statue 
is  thought  to  be  beautiful ; the  proposition  is  thought 
to  be  true ; the  action  is  thought  to  be  right.  But 
each  of  the  three  as  subjects  of  thought  are  complex. 
Thought  cannot  act  on  the  single,  but  only  on  the 
plural ; its  first  product,  a judgment,  implies  at  least 
two  conceptions.  As  beauty  does  not  arise  from  a sen- 
sation whose  content  is  a thing,  but  from  an  intellection 
whose  content  is  a thought,  and  as  a thought  must  con- 
tain more  than  one  element,  beauty  can  never  be  found 
in  the  absolute  unit : variety  is  its  perpetual  condition. 
Only  in  a relation,  a combination  of  parts,  is  found  that 
expression  which  is  its  basis. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  variety  cannot  be  an  unhar- 
monized and  discordant  variety.  Otherwise,  the  mind, 
unable  to  reconcile  the  members  in  any  connection,  to 
contemplate  them  as  one,  is  forced  back  upon  the  parts, 
and  the  variety  which  it  seemed  to  have  obtained  is 
again  lost.  Each  fragment  still  stands  alone,  a stone  in 
a yet  unerected  building,  and  makes  only  its  single  im- 
pression. It  is  by  the  concurrent,  and  not  the  conflict- 
ing, action  of  various  things,  that  the  mind  receives  a 
more  powerful  impulse  than  belonged  to  any  of  the  parts. 

We  have  now,  not  a unit,  but  a unity.  The  first  is 
single  in  itself,  and  single  in  its  impression  on  the 
senses  ; the  second  is  complex  in  its  elements,  and  com- 
plex in  its  sensuous  impression,  but  one  in  its  action  on 
mind.  The  band  of  thought  has  gathered  the  fagots 
into  a bundle.  The  plan  of  the  architect  has  led  us  to 
overlook  the  individual  stones  in  the  individual  build- 
ing. This  synthesis  is,  and  is  felt  to  be,  the  triumph  of 
concordant  thought  over  discordant  matter,  and  in  the 
extent  and  perfection  of  this  triumph  are  found  the 


UNITY  NECESSARY. 


49 


degrees  of  beauty.  It  does  not  merely  aggregate  the 
power  already  present  in  the  parts,  but  establishes  a 
new  relation  therein,  creates  a new  power  not  before 
existent.  Paints  pass  into  paintings,  sounds  into  music, 
acts  into  achievements,  and  words  into  character. 

Beauty,  then,  demands  variety  in  its  object,  since  thus 
only  can  there  be  combination,  expression : it  demands 
uuity,  since  thus  only  is  there  combination,  thus  only  is 
the  sensible  made  the  intellectual,  and  the  diversity  of 
tilings  the  harmony  of  thought.  The  unity  is  supplied 
from  within,  the  diversity  is  found  without  in  facts  and 
objects,  and  the  relation  of  these  two  elements  we  need 
to  unfold  in  several  directions. 

( a .)  The  variety  may  often  be  striking  and  startling 
without  at  all  disturbing  the  oneness  of  expression. 
The  power  of  the  thought  is  seen  in  its  command  of  full 
and  diverse  expression.  4G — • US' 40 

As  the  unity  now  spoken  of  is  only  a unity  of  the 
mind’s  imparting  and  the  mind’s  receiving,  it  is  evident 
that  it  is  not  exclusively  dependent  upon,  nor  does  it 
certainly  follow,  any  form  of  external  unity.  It  may 
consist  with  resemblance,  and  it  may  still  more  markedly 
consist  with  certain  forms  of  diversity.  Contrast  may 
carry  feeling  to  its  highest  intensity ; on  this  condition, 
however,  that  it  does  not  become  a conflict  of  opposite 
emotions.  The  predominating  feeling  of  any  work  must 
have  no  rival,  and  yet  it  may  make  a foil  of  adverse 
emotions,  and  thereby  itself  be  more  distinctly  felt. 
The  garden  that  includes  no  waste  within  its  own  walls, 
may  yet  make  us  the  more  sensible  of  its  wealth  by  the 
wild  without  it.  Power  finds  a simultaneous  and  double 
expression  in  the  rest  of  the  rocky  shore,  and  in  the 
unceasing,  impetuous  motion  of  the  waves  that  dash 


50 


LECTURE  IV. 


upon  it.  Repose  is  imaged  as  plainly  in  the  silent 
mountains  uplifted  against  the  sky,  as  in  the  sheltered 
valleys  at  their  base  ; fear  and  despair  are  as  clearly  set 
forth  in  the  last  thin  beams  of  a winter  sun  as  in  the 
cold,  dun  clouds  and  unyielding  night  which  extin- 
guish them.  The  deformed  beggars  gathered  at  the 
beautiful  gate  of  the  temple  give  in  brighter  relief  the 
physical  and  spiritual  power  of  the  Apostles.  The 
' courageous,  unhesitating  faith  of  a leader  is  seen,  not 
less  in  the  fickle,  fearful  emotions  of  those  about  him, 
than  in  his  own  repose  and  strength.  Nature  has  not 
only  many  thoughts,  but  many  and  most  diverse  meth- 
ods of  uttering  the  same  thought,  and  a free  and  power- 
ful variety  will  hold  these  at  command.  Witnesses  to 
the  same  truth  will  come  up  from  opposite  sides  and 
from  remote  kingdoms.  It  will  not  be  the  power  of 
objects  over  the  senses,  but  their  power  over  the  intel- 
lect, that  will  assign  them  their  position,  and  the  latter 
will  sometimes  take  pleasure  in  the  bold  manner  in 
which  she  overrules  and  contradicts  the  former. 

Cause  and  effect  constitute  the  most  stern  of  all  the 
connections  in  the  external  world ; and,  as  containing 
for  the  mind  more  of  truth  than  any  other,  will  most 
constantly  appear  as  a controlling  principle  amid  all 
variety.  That  which  is  a law  of  thought  and  order 
elsewhere,  though  present  in  beauty  in  a less  strict  and 
obtrusive  form,  will  yet  give  direction  and  limitation  to 
every  force.  Our  variety  will  not  be  a mere  fortuity, 
a chance-medley,  but  will  everywhere  show  the  surf- 
marks  of  great  natural  forces.  It  will  be  suggestive 
of  what  has  preceded  it,  what  is  to  come  after  it,  and 
show  where  it  takes  hold  on  things  that  are.  And 
yet  the  variety  of  beauty  is  not  bound  down  to  philos- 
ophy or  natural  science. 


EFFECT  OF  SCIENCE  ON  BEAUTY. 


51 


Art,  while  heeding  science,  is  constantly  transcending 
it.  No  complex  series  of  causes,  even  in  the  physical 
world,  is  so  well  understood  as  not  to  leave  most  of 
its  hourly  phenomena  inexplicable.  Form,  feature, 
color,  method,  the  things  wherein  expression  lurks,  are 
in  their  details  capable  of  very  little  critical  knowledge, 
and  receive  but  a very  general  law  from  science.  We 
know  something  of  the  type,  the  generic  form,  but 
very  little  of  the  many  individual  forms  under  which 
it  may  appear.  The  painter  does  not  find  himself 
straitened  in  the  variety  of  his  plants  and  animals  by 
observing  the  most  accurate  classifications  of  botany 
and  zoology.  The  intuitive  power  of  the  reason  is  left 
without  the  guidance  of  science  in  its  efforts  to  appre- 
hend the  symbols  of  life,  and  so  to  combine  these,  that 
they  shall  freely  utter  what  it  would  have  them  utter. 
It  is  not  the  rough  work,  the  meagre  outline,  ex- 
plained by  known  causes,  and  reached  by  tracing  these 
in  their  effects,  that  give  beauty,  but  the  faithful 
presentation  of  forces  doing  a perfect  work,  — but  how 
doing  it  we  know  not.  In  every  department,  experience 
gives  us  much  in  sensible  properties  and  associations 
merely  ; much,  therefore,  which  art  uses  with  but  a 
very  limited  reference  to  science. 

The  regions  of  fancy  also  stretch  beyond  those  of 
fact,  and  though  the  two  territories  ever  so  skirt  the 
one  upon  the  other  as  to  establish  a sympathy  of  laws 
and  manners,  yet  each  more  wayward  dream  of  the 
creative  mind  can  spring  up  yonder  under  milder  criti- 
cism as  in  a land  not  explored  or  mapped.  When  we 
add  to  this  the  fact,  that  in  rational  life  there  is  rec- 
ognized a free-will  much  less  calculable  in  its  results 
than  cause,  — a supernatural  element  with  ever  widen- 


52 


LECTURE  IV. 


ing  relations,  — we  shall  see  at  once,  that  the  variety, 
both  in  nature  and  art,  which  is  the  basis  of  beauty,  is 
not  straitened  by  science  ; that  sculpture  is  in  no  danger 
of  becoming  a branch  of  physiology,  music  of  acoustics, 
or  poetry  of  philosophy.  The  most  rigid  stratification 
is  liable  to  a fault,  clouds  do  not  always  guarantee  a 
storm,  nor  the  beginning  of  life  forecast  its  end. 

Knowledge,  in  its  rapid  advancement,  far  from  crip- 
pling, becomes  a convenient  law  to  the  imagination, 
making  it  more  chaste,  truthful,  and  rational,  and  it- 
self assigning  form  and  meaning  to  much  which  would 
otherwise  be  to  art  formless  and  meaningless.  A wider 
recognition  of  truth,  far  from  restricting  beauty,  fills 
the  world  with  new  and  marvellous  suggestions,  and 
makes  the  little  that  is  known,  amid  the  much  that 
remains  unknown,  most  quickening  to  the  imagination, 
declarative  of  a most  subtile  and  pervasive  power.  The 
truths  of  cause  and  effect,  of  science  rarely  limiting 
variety,  will  often  unite,  in  most  compact  and  power- 
ful expression,  things  before  thought  too  diverse  or  ac- 
cidental for  any  convergence.  We  are  in  danger  of 
knowing,  not  too  much,  but  too  little,  for  the  highest 
impression  of  objects.  The  unknown  is  to  the  mind 
the  confused,  the  chaotic  ; and  only  as  knowledge  moves 
through  it  revealing  thought,  plan,  expression,  can 
beauty  follow,  taking  possession  of  it  as  a conquered 
realm. 

(fr.)  The  unity  in  which  variety  is  contained  is  not 
always  equally  strict.  It  is  true,  that  the  power  of 
the  expression  must  depend  on  the  singleness  of  the 
thought  which  links  the  parts,  and  its  entire  control 
of  each  of  them ; but  much  that  is  beautiful  is  rather 
a harmony  of  many  pleasant  impressions,  than  a com- 
pact, forcible  rendering  of  a single  expression. 


STRICTNESS  OF  UNITY. 


53 


The  unity  secured  is  oftener  that  of  the  genus  than 
of  the  species.  The  landscape  contains  a thousand  pleas- 
ing things:  more  rarely  it  combines  them,  subordi- 
nating part  to  part  in  a single  unique  and  vigorous 
expression.  The  mind  seeks  after,  and  takes  an  es- 
pecial delight  in,  the  higher,  stricter  unity  of  one  gov- 
erning element,  but  gratefully  accepts  a concord  of 
agreeable  things.  In  proportion  as  the  space  decreases, 
and  the  things  presented  become  fewer,  the  mind  claims 
an  increase  of  unity,  and  this  for  three  reasons.  It 
seems  more  readily  secured.  Some  of  the  objects  in 
a wide  field  may  be  more  restive,  more  stubbornly  di- 
verse ; but  as  these  diminish,  the  ease  with  which  a 
uniting  thought  is  found  increases.  The  very  fact  also 
of  this  narrowness,  this  singleness  of  the  group,  seems 
to  imply  that  all  parts  must  share  common  circum- 
stances and  impulses.  If  the  group  is  one  of  men, 
and  passion  is  present,  it  must  be  the  same  for  all ; if 
of  plants,  the  conditions  of  life  must  be  alike  to  all.  A 
third  reason  is,  that,  in  proportion  as  things  partially 
diverse  are  crowded  together,  the  diversity  is  made 
more  apparent,  and  creates  in  the  mind  either  the  con- 
flict of  opposites  or  the  confusion  of  the  unarranged. 
A series  of  paintings  may  do  what  one  cannot  be  made 
to  do.  A park  may  contain  what  cannot  in  miniature 
be  successfully  represented  in  a garden. 

(c.)  Nature,  amid  an  illimitable  variety,  preserves 
the  unity  of  her  work  by  a constant  repetition,  under 
specific  differences,  of  generic  forms  and  colors  ; under 
individual  differences,  of  specific  forms  and  colors.  The 
basis  of  her  beauty  and  her  science  is  the  same.  That 
which  is  classification  to  the  intellect  is  harmony  and 
rhythm  to  the  emotions.  As  unity  has  two  conditions, 


54 


LECTURE  IV. 


agreement  and  differences,  it  lias  also  two  opposite 
dangers,  sameness  and  confusion  ; the  monotony  of 
identical  forms  mechanically  repeated,  the  disorder  of 
variable  forms  endlessly  shifted.  Between  these,  nature 
preserves  her  safe  path,  never  leaving  her  parts  involved 
beyond  the  mind’s  grasp  in  the  chaos  of  materials  and 
elements,  nor  yet  reducing  them  to  block  and  brick 
work,  to  dead  surfaces  and  unbroken  # angles.  Each 
species  of  tree  has  its  own  typical  form,  involving,  with 
much  variety,  so  many,  and  such  undistinguishable 
things  as  to  escape  description,  and  yet  returning  with 
so  much  uniformity  to  certain  lines  and  relations,  as 
never  to  escape  the  disciplined  eye.  With  or  without 
foliage,  near  by  or  remote,  the  ash,  the  maple,  the  lin- 
den, reveal  themselves,  and  yet  leave  the  mind  unable 
to  explain  the  certainty  of  its  own  conviction.  So,  also, 
is  it  with  the  relation  of  fibres  in  the  several  kinds  of 
wood.  Small  fragments,  when  cut  in  different  methods, 
and  from  different  portions  of  the  tree,  disclose  amid 
themselves  a great  variety  of  surface,  yet  all  of  them 
have  the  indefinable  additional  stamp  of  their  species. 
The  leaf  repeats  the  specific,  but  never  the  individual 
form.  The  bough,  while  branching  in  obedience  to  the 
life  of  the  tree,  also  has  a peculiar  office  to  fulfil.  The 
tree,  while  knowing  and  feeling  the  method  of  its  class, 
remembers  also  the  new  conditions  under  which  the  old 
problem  is  to  be  solved,  and  grows  up  as  distinct  and 
individual  as  if  it  were  the  only  representative  of  the 
tribe.  The  forest,  while  gathering  into  its  ranks  trees  in 
all  their  varieties,  disposes  the  several  kinds  so  sparingly, 
so  in  reference  to  each  other,  and  by  resemblance  of 
habits,  as  never  to  confound  the.  mind  or  suffer  the 
wealth  of  its  resources  to  degenerate  into  prodigality. 


UNITY  IN  NATURE. 


55 


It  never  wastes,  in  the  wantonness  of  the  hour,  that 
reserved  power  by  which  wood  and  forest  are  distin- 
guished from  each  other,  and  made  new  chapters  in  the 
vegetable  kingdom.  A similar  sameness  and  variety  of 
forms  are  traceable  in  hills  and  mountains,  and  thus  in 
the  landscape  of  which  these  are  controlling  features. 

What  has  now  been  illustrated  in  form  may  be  seen  in 
color  in  the  plumage  of  birds.  So  numerous  are  birds, 
so  little  accessible  to  the  senses,  so  migratory  in  their 
habits,  that  here,  especially,  is  variety  liable  to  lapse 
into  confusion.  Proportionately  decided  and  firm  is 
the  principle  by  which  unity  is  preserved.  We  have 
exactness  of  color  as  well  as  exactness  of  form.  The 
individual  does,  indeed,  within  the  limits  of  the  species 
find  minor  shades  of  difference,  but  these  limits  are  care- 
fully marked  and  watchfully  guarded.  Color,  though 
of  great  variety  and  richness  of  pattern,  with  many  most 
elaborate  and  specific  markings,  is  no  longer  that  vacil- 
lating thing  we  often  find  it  elsewhere,  but  becomes  a 
most  obvious  and  unmistakable  mark  of  the  class,  and 
thus  of  the  habits  and  character,  of  the  bird.  Without 
this  mark,  all  would  become  confusion,  even  to  the 
more  careful  student ; with  it,  all  is  order  to  the  com- 
paratively careless  observer.  In  domestic  fowls,  where 
no  such  danger  of  confounding  species  exists,  this  prin- 
ciple of  unity  is  relaxed,  and  variety  is  enlarged  through 
every  shade  and  combination  of  colors.  The  variety  of 
individuals,  when  it  would  endanger,  to  the  eye  at  least, 
the  distinction  of  species,  is  restricted,  and  its  place 
supplied  by  a most  marked  variety  of  species  firmly  pre- 
served. When,  however,  the  species  is  unmistakable, 
as  in  the  dove  and  the  hen,  and  sameness  is  ready  to  be- 
come an  unmeaning  monotony,  color  ceases  to  be  stable, 


56 


LECTURE  IV. 


and,  from  black  to  white,  from  red  to  violet,  ranges 
through  the  spectrum. 

(c?.)  We  have  reserved  till  now  the  distinction  be- 
tween beauty,  grandeur,  and  sublimity,  since  it  can 
be  best  considered  in  connection  with  unity  and  variety. 
These  three  are  but  distinctions  under  the  generic  term 
beauty ; certain  more  marked  and  peculiar  forms  of 
beauty  being  distinguished  by  the  names  grandeur  and 
sublimity.  That  beauty  and  sublimity  are  but  two 
extremes,  the  lower  and  higher  manifestations  of  the 
same  qualities,  is  evident  from  many  examples.  The 
peacefully  flowing  river  is  beautiful ; as  it  gathers  im- 
pulse and  purpose,  and  rushes  on  in  rapids  it  becomes 
grand ; when,  shivered  and  wild  with  motion,  it  leaps 
the  cataract  in  eager  masses,  it  is  sublime.  By  an  im- 
perceptible transition  and  growth  of  expression,  we  have 
passed  from  simple  beauty  to  sublimity.  An  increase  of 
dimensions  imparts  grandeur  in  architecture,  and  the 
stretch  of  even  a naked  desert  may  impress  us  with  a 
kindred  feeling.  A character  shaped  upon  truth  is  beau- 
tiful ; standing  upon  truth  amid  the  violence  of  ene- 
mies, is  grand ; adhering  to  truth  amid  the  derision  of 
friends,  and  in  defiance  of  the  rack  and  the  fagot,  is 
sublime.  It  is  usually  said  that  power  is  the  essential 
expression  of  all  sublime  objects.  To  make  this  true, 
the  word  must  include  much  more  than  mere  physical 
power.  Duration,  magnitude,  any  beautiful  expression 
which  enlarges  and  overpowers  the  mind  in  its  appre- 
hension, may  become  sublime.  It  is  the  fulness  and 
force  of  the  expression  always  implying  power,  and  often 
its  direct  utterance,  that  excites  this  more  intense  and 
elevated  emotion.  Strictly  speaking,  there  are  three 
directions  in  which  the  mind  may  be  outstripped  by 


SUBLIMITY. 


57 


the  expression : in  space,  which  is  magnitude  ; in  time, 
which  is  duration ; in  intensity,  which  is  power ; and 
these  will  together  or  independently  give  rise  to  the 
sublime. 

In  a sublime  object  the  unity  of  the  expression  is 
great,  and  also  the  variety.  There  is  no  doubt  or  divis- 
ion in  the  impression,  though  it  arises  from  so  many 
points,  and  so  intensely  from  each  that  the  mind  is  un- 
able to  estimate  it.  The  variety,  though  united  to  our 
apprehension  and  feeling,  escapes  the  judgment,  and 
leaves  the  mind  overpowered  by  the  sense  of  its  fulness. 
Arithmetic  is  vanquished,  and  power  as  an  unmeasured 
magnitude  presses  upon  the  feelings.  As  long  as  the 
sources  of  expression  are  calculable  and  measurable, 
the  mind  remains  in  a more  quiet  and  composed  atti- 
tude, but  when  it  is  sensible  that  these  are  escaping  it,  are 
overwhelming  it,  that  it  is  in  the  midst  of  that  which 
bespeaks  the  unmeasured  and  the  infinite,  it  is  lifted  up, 
and,  according  to  the  original  force  of  the  word,  be- 
comes sublime.  The  impression  of  the  sublime,  then, 
is  due  to  the  escape  of  variety,  though  in  connection 
with  the  most  intense  unity,  from  the  judgment,  the 
mind’s  measurements. 

There  are  several  considerations  which  tend  to  estab- 
lish this  view.  In  a tranquil  ocean,  there  is  great  same- 
ness of  parts,  and  we  do  not  receive  the  impression  of 
sublimity  from  a limited  surface.  Ten  acres  or  a square 
mile  of  ocean  has  no  hold  upon  the  heart.  It  is  only 
when  the  sky  dips  to  the  water,  and  the  two  pass  out 
together,  that  the  mind  falters  in  its  pursuit,  and  is 
made  to  feel  how  all  things  elude  its  senses.  Here  the 
variety  which  the  judgment  has  not  estimated  is  made 
up  of  an  endless  repetition  of  similar  parts,  and  the  ex- 
3* 


58 


LECTURE  IV. 


tent  must  be  all  the  greater  in  proportion  as  this  same- 
ness aids  the  mind’s  action.  A desert  farm  is  one 
thing  ; a desert  continent  quite  another. 

On  the  other  hand,  when  the  ocean  is  wakeful  to  the 
winds,  and  every  foot  of  surface  is  a shifting  and  per- 
petual strife,  shrouded  in  its  own  spray  of  battle,  the 
mind  is  easily  overtasked,  and  a narrow  vista  opened 
through  the  mist  gives  it  more  than  it  can  apprehend. 
Here,  the  variety,  having  more  of  diversity,  readily 
escapes  the  apprehension,  and,  in  a comparatively  lim- 
ited field,  produces  the  impression  of  sublimity. 

It  has  been  found  that  order  is  sometimes  favorable 
to  the  sublime  ; at  other  times,  disorder.  An  army  pro- 
duces the  impression  by  its  order  ; the  mountain  range 
by  its  disorder,  — its  traces  of  volcanic  action.  This 
similarity  of  effects  from  apparently  opposite  causes  is 
yet  due  to  the  same  principle.  It  is  only  the  aggregate 
movement  of  men  that  can  have  in  it  so  much  power  as 
to  startle  the  mind.  Order  here,  therefore,  serves  to 
intensify  and  bring  out  the  expression,  and  is  thus  its 
only  hope  of  sublimity  ; without  order,  the  mind  is  left 
to  contemplate  individuals  ; with  order,  it  contemplates 
an  army. 

On  the  other  hand,  confusion  and  disorder  amid  the 
elements  of  nature,  regarded  as  all  obedient  to  one  force, 
disturb  the  mind  in  its  estimate  of  that  force,  and 
cause  it  to  be  more  readily  overpowered  with  a sense 
of  magnitude.  In  the  one  case,  the  parts  are  distinct, 
and  it  is  only  by  their  combination  in  so  large  a whole 
as  to  tax  the  apprehension,  that  they  can  reach  sublim- 
ity. In  the  other,  all  objects  are  under  the  dominion 
of  one  force,  and  this  eludes  us  the  more  readily  by  the 
irregularity  of  its  action.  The  sublime  is  aided  in  two 


ABSOLUTE  AND  RELATIVE  BEAUTY. 


59 


directions,  either  by  that  which  multiplies  the  power, 
— this  order  sometimes  does  ; or  by  that  which  embar- 
rasses the  mind  in  its  apprehension  of  that  power,  — 
this  confusion  and  darkness  frequently  do.  In  either 
case,  the  principle  is  the  same,  — a multiplication  of 
parts  either  in  sameness  or  diversity  escaping  the  mind’s 
estimates.  It  should  be  remembered,  that  in  the  expres- 
sion variety  and  unity,  variety  may  sometimes  mean 
nothing  more  than  multiplicity,  — a repetition  of  simi- 
lar parts. 

(e.)  There  remains  another  distinction  often  made, 
and  best  discussed  in  this  connection  ; that  of  absolute 
and  relative  beauty.  Some  things  are  spoken  of  as 
absolutely  beautiful,  — beautiful  in  themselves  ; others, 
as  relatively  beautiful,  — beautiful  in  their  connections 
with  other  objects.  This  distinction  does  not  seem  to 
be  well  taken.  All  beauty  is  a beauty  of  relations  of 
parts  gathered  into  a whole.  We  may  subdivide  the 
object  under  consideration,  and  make  of  it  several  dis 
tinct  objects,  or  unite  it  with  others  and  make  of  it  a 
still  more  complex  object.  But,  in  each  case,  the  object, 
whether  a landscape,  a tree  in  the  landscape,  or  a flower 
on  the  tree,  is  beautiful  or  otherwise  through  the  rela- 
tion of  its  parts.  Each  object,  the  flower,  the  tree,  the 
landscape,  is  complex,  containing  members,  and  also  as 
a member  is  included  in  that  which  is  higher.  When 
I pronounce  the  flower  beautiful,  but  the  tree,  of  which 
it  is  a part,  deformed,  there  is  no  conflict  in  my  judg- 
ments. In  each  it  is  a question  of  relations,  and  while 
the  right  relations  are  found  in  the  one  object,  they  are 
not  found  in  the  other.  The  awkward  position  of  the 
flower  on  the  tree  is  a question  of  the  beauty  of  the 
tree,  and  not  of  the  flower.  Many  objects  are  complex, 


60 


LECTURE  IV. 


including  parts  distinct  and  complete  in  themselves, 
and  these  yet  other  parts.  If  we  start  with  the  simplest 
whole,  and  pass  up  to  the  most  inclusive  whole,  we 
shall  find  a series  of  distinct  questions  propounded,  each 
involving  new  principles  of  arrangement,  and  capable 
of  a distinct  answer.  From  lowest  to  highest,  however, 
all  is  relative  beauty,  if  we  understand  by  this  expres- 
sion the  beauty  of  relations  ; all,  absolute,  intrinsic 
beauty,  if  we  understand  by  this  a beauty  in  its  condi- 
tions wholly  interior  to  the  object  considered.  There  is 
another  class  of  objects,  of  which  the  parts  are  not  all 
of  them  complete  in  themselves,  but  dependent  on  their 
combination  for  expression.  Such  are  some  of  the 
members  of  a building.  These  are  not  wholes,  and 
have  no  beauty  save  as  parts  of  a whole. 

There  are  yet  other  objects  which  have,  or  should 
have,  throughout,  strict  reference  to  a specific  end. 
Of  this  class  are  all  buildings.  These  it  may  be  thought 
may  have  beauty  in  themselves,  — may  please  the  eye, 
and,  considered  in  reference  to  the  end  for  which 
they  were  erected,  have  an  additional  beauty,  and  that 
the  first  may  be  conveniently  termed  absolute,  and  the 
second,  relative  beauty.  But  no  building  can  be  judged 
as  a whole  as  a building,  without  knowing  the  end 
for  which  it  was  built.  This  it  was  which  called  for 
the  structure,  — which  gave  law  to  the  structure,  which 
was  'everywhere  in  it  as  a plan  and  a purpose.  It  is  a 
meaningless  pile  without  the  interpretation  of  this  end, 
— this  aim  of  labor,  — and  only  becomes  an  expressive 
and  beautiful  thing  as  this  object  of  rational  effort,  and 
the  fulness  and  felicity  with  which  it  has  been  reached, 
are  seen.  It  is  not  the  eye,  but  the  mind,  that  judges 
the  work,  and  its  inquiries  at  once  are,  What  the  object  ? 
and,  How  reached  ? 


BEAUTY  IN  ARCHITECTURE. 


61 


If  the  building  has  no  beauty  in  its  relation  to  an 
end,  it  has  no  beauty  as  a building.  There  may  still 
be  certain  parts  which  can  be  considered  separately,  and 
pronounced  beautiful,  but  the  dwelling,  the  church,  and 
the  cathedral  are  what  they  are  only  in  view  of  the  end 
they  subserve  and  the  feeling  that  gives  rise  to  them. 

We  cannot,  therefore,  here  have  an  absolute  which 
is  not  a relative  beauty.  The  question  of  beauty  is 
one,  — Is  the  building  as  a building  beautiful?  — and 
for  the  right  answering  of  this,  all  the  relations  and 
objects  of  the  building  must  be  understood. 


LECTURE  V. 


THIRD  CONDITION  OF  BEAUTY,  TRUTH.  — IMITATIONS.  — TRUTH 
DEFINED.  — CONNECTIONS  OF  NATURE  AND  ART.  — THE 
IDEAL. 

A third  characteristic  of  beauty  is  truth.  This  as- 
sertion, however,  is  only  applicable  to  art,  since  nature 
is  our  standard  of  truth,  and  all  natural  beauty  neces- 
sarily possesses  this  quality.  So  various  and  vague  are 
the  notions  attached  to  the  phrase  Truth  in  art,  that 
we  shall  not  be  able  to  make  satisfactory  progress  with- 
out carefully  defining  its  several  meanings. 

Some  reference  of  art  to  nature,  — some  agreement 
of  our  conceptions  with  facts,  — is  supposed  to  be  in- 
cluded in  the  words,  though  the  precise  connection 
intended,  of  man’s  creations  with  those  of  the  external 
world  is  not  seen. 

A common  meaning  of  the  true  is  that  by  which  it  is 
confounded  with  the  best,  the  noblest,  the  right.  In 
this  sense,  to  say  that  truth  is  a characteristic  of  beauty, 
may  be  either  to  utter  the  truism,  that  that  which  is  best 
or  beautiful  is  best  or  beautiful ; or  if,  proceeding  more 
wittingly,  we  first  define  what  is  the  best,  the  noblest, 
the  true,  and  afterward  call  this  beautiful,  it  may  be 
to  perform  the  work  already  undertaken  by  us  in  show- 
ing what  that  is  in  expression  which  is  beautiful.  Of 
the  true,  then,  as  employed  to  designate  that  which  is 
correct  or  high-toned  in  expression,  we  have  no  further 
occasion  to  speak. 


WHAT  UNDERSTOOD  BY  TRUTH. 


63 


A second  meaning  of  truth  is,  that  which  excludes 
falsehood  from  art,  and  suffers  no  surface  work  to  indi- 
cate, either  in  structure  or  material,  that  which  does  not 
exist  beneath  it.  In  this  signification,  the  true  is  the 
genuine,  and  is  especially  at  war  with  veneerings,  paints, 
stuccos,  frescoes,  and  cast  ornaments ; at  least,  so  far  as 
they  purport  to  be  other  than  what  they  are.  An  en- 
couragement of  these  makes  deception  an  end  of  art, 
and  naked  imitation  its  means,  thus  destroying  the 
artist ; gives  rise  to  pretence,  ostentation,  and  an  un- 
grounded self-satisfaction  in  the  employer  of  art,  thus 
degrading  him  from  the  patron  of  virtuous  taste  to  the 
pander  of  a false  and  foolish  vanity  ; and  reduces  the 
enjoyment  of  art  to  the  detection  of  a clever  resem- 
blance, leaving  the  critic  now  pleased  with  his  own 
acuteness,  now  chagrined  by  his  failure  to  discover 
the  imposture. 

It  should  certainly  be  an  important  principle  with 
the  lover  of  art  to  prefer  the  genuine  to  the  false,  a plain 
and  substantial  reality  to  elaborate  and  unsubstantial 
ornament ; but  so  far  have  these  surface  dressings  now 
entered  into  art  as  to  render  their  exclusion  both  un- 
desirable and  impossible.  Architecture  is  alone  affect- 
ed by  them ; and  as  this  is  primarily  a useful  art,  ruled 
by  economic  principles,  and  only  secondarily  a fine  art, 
it  can  never  be  made  entirely  amenable  to  the  laws 
of  the  latter.  It  is  evident,  however,  that  all  finish 
which  is  intended  to  suggest  what  does  not  really  exist 
should  be  carefully  excluded  from  high  and  valuable 
art,  from  public  and  monumental  architecture.  Let  us, 
at  least,  know  that  that  which  claims  to  be  good  is  hon- 
est ; that  that  which  arrogates  merit  is  not  a bold  lie, 
challenging  detection ; that  the  people  have  not  com- 
bined to  do  both  a weak  and  a false  thing. 


64 


LECTURE  Y. 


In  domestic  architecture,  on  the  other  hand,  which 
is  expected  to  be  more  temporary,  claims  less  for  itself, 
and  must  be  more  economic,  veneers  and  imitations  will 
always  play  an  important  part,  and  this,  too,  without 
detriment  to  the  taste  of  a people,  if  one  or  two  things 
are  remembered.  The  radical  difficulty  with  this  meth- 
od of  workmanship  is  the  deception  aimed  at.  It  is 
this  which  gives  rise  to  pretence  and  ostentation  on  one 
side,  and  disappointment  and  contempt  on  the  other. 
Our  true  success,  then,  in  this  kind  of  art  is  not,  as  is 
supposed,  in  a completeness  of  imitation  which  misleads 
the  mind,  — and  fortunately  the  supposed  perfection  is 
unattainable  by  most  workmen,  — but  in  an  agreeable- 
ness  of  design  and  success  of  execution  which,  while 
pleasing,  yet  reveal  themselves  for  what  they  truly  are. 
Paint  has  not  the  best  effect  when  it  is  thought  to  be 
good  stone  or  the  native  wood,  but  when  it  is  seen  to  be 
paint  well  put  on.  It  then  does  an  honest,  valuable, 
and  praiseworthy  work.  While  the  veining  of  wood 
may  suggest  a pattern,  that  graining  is  best  which  gives 
rise  to  no  doubt,  but  in  itself  and  in  its  relations  at 
once  shows  that  it  is  graining. 

An  agreeable  impression  may  undoubtedly  be  secured 
by  a cheap  yet  permanent  surface  work,  and  it  would 
certainly  be  foolish  to  throw  away  papers  and  paints, 
which  relieve  and  cheer  the  eye  in  every  dwelling,  be- 
cause what  is  represented  by  them  is  often  not  real ; nor 
is  it  difficult  to  draw  important  practical  distinctions 
between  the  right  and  wrong  methods  of  using  these 
materials. 

(a.)  That  which  reveals  its  own  nature  is  to  be  pre- 
ferred to  that  whose  success  is  dependent  on  a sugges- 
tion of  something  better  than  itself.  Imitation  should 


IMITATIONS. 


65 


be  turned  aside  from  entire  resemblance,  and  those  fea- 
tures which  mark  the  nature  of  the  material  be  sufferod, 
nay,  made  to  appear  freely.  Iron-work  will  ever  show 
itself  to  be  iron,  unless  most  assiduously  disguised.  A 
casting  will  naturally  distinguish  itself  from  a carving, 
and  this  it  should  ever  be  suffered  to  do. 

The  parts  of  the  design  must  always  be  heavier  and 
better  sustained  in  stone,  than  when  wrought  in  the  te- 
nacious fibres  of  iron.  The  inherent  strength  of  the  one 
material  tends  to  a lightness  of  pattern  quite  impossible 
with  the  other.  The  more  markedly  every  material 
possesses  and  wears  its  own  characteristics,  the  better  is 
it,  and  there  is  no  so  sure  way  of  destroying  both  the 
higher  and  the  lower,  as  a constant  effort  on  the  part  of 
the  one  to  assume  the  forms  and  draw  to  itself  the  atten- 
tion which  can  only  properly  belong  to  the  other. 

(6.)  That  which  is  genuine  should  not  be  mingled 
with  that  which  is  imitative.  This  is  often  done  on 
purpose  to  aid  the  deception,  and  must  always  have  the 
effect  to  confuse  the  mind,  and  render  it  suspicious. 
Such  a method  is  opposed  to  the  frank,  open  spirit  al- 
ready urged,  which  everywhere  avows  its  material  by  its 
manner  of  treatment. 

(c.)  That  which  is  inaccessible  and  beyond  our  judg- 
ment should  be  in  kind  like  that  near  at  hand.  No  im- 
pression is  more  unfortunate  than  that  our  action  will 
turn  into  an  indolent  subterfuge  the  moment  it  is  out 
from  under  inspection.  It  is  better  to  make  the  decep- 
tion elaborate,  place  it  where  it  may  be  examined,  and 
defy  detection,  than  to  hide  a cheap  and  lazy  imitation 
in  the  distance,  and  then  affirm  it  to  be  genuine  by  a 
witness  near  at  hand.  The  spectator,  when  discovering 
the  character  of  such  work,  feels  that  he  has  not  been 


66 


LECTURE  V. 


cheated  by  the  cunning  of  the  artist,  but  by  his  sheer, 
shirking  dishonesty. 

If  these  principles  are  regarded,  an  inability  success- 
fully to  carry  imitation  into  deception,  and  custom  tell- 
ing us  what  to  expect,  and  in  what  places,  will  do  the 
rest,  and  the  various  methods  of  surface  treatment  will 
be  as  genuine  as  any  work  in  wood  or  stone,  for  they 
will  only  indicate  what  they  really  are.  They  may, 
also,  well  be  the  more  dear  to  us,  because  they  give 
early  play  to  the  fancy,  and,  accessible  to  all,  are  the 
modest  adornments  of  the  homes  of  the  many.  That 
truth  which  acknowledges  its  material,  which  honors 
the  genuine,  which  marks  the  imitative  as  such,  is  an 
element  of  all  correct  taste. 

This  meaning  of  truth  is,  however,  subordinate  to  yet 
another  meaning  employed  in  questions  of  art,  the  one 
more  immediately  referred  to  in  speaking  of  it  as  a 
characteristic  of  beauty.  This  is  an  agreement  between 
the  signs  and  symbols  of  art  and  those  of  nature.  The 
language  of  the  two  must  be  the  same.  What  we  have 
seen  in  the  actual  world  must  interpret  what  we  see  in 
the  ideal  world,  and  what  is  here  present  must  have  the 
fulness  and  force  of  what  we  have  elsewhere  felt.  It  is 
this  common  speech  of  art  and  nature,  — this  use  of 
the  same  forms  and  colors,  the  same  traces  of  life  and 
indices  of  feeling,  — that  makes  them  one  in  their  hold 
on  the  mind,  and  renders  it  impossible  to  enter  into  the 
first,  save  through  the  gateway  of  the  second. 

The  plans  in  nature,  while  elaborate  and  varied,  are 
sternly  self-consistent,  are,  within  the  limits  she  her- 
self has  defined,  forever  the  same.  Each  kind  of  tree 
has  its  own  method  of  branching,  each  trunk  its  own 
bark-surface,  each  rock  its  own  fracture,  each  moss  its 


TRUTH  DEFINED. 


67 


own  pattern.  Truth  in  all  representation  lies  in  tho 
knowledge  of  these ; and  in  representing  tliom,  — we 
are  not  limited  to  a fact,  but  to  facts,  not  to  a form,  but 
to  a method  ; and  he  who  knows,  neither  by  observa- 
tion nor  inspiration,  how  nature  works,  cannot  him- 
self work.  No  origination  of  symbols  is  open  to  the 
artist:  he  speaks  as  God  has  spoken  from  the  begin- 
ning. There  is  but  one  alphabet  of  beauty,  and  that  is 
found  in  nature.  The  relation  of  art  to  nature  we 
must  unfold  more  fully. 

The  first  condition  of  beauty  was  given  as  expression. 
This  is  fundamental,  it  is  that  which  underlies  beauty, 
and  comes  out  in  it.  The  second  was  stated  to  be 
unity  in  variety,  or,  more  simply,  unity.  This  is  not 
something  in  addition  to  expression,  but  the  method 
of  that  expression,  that  without  which  expression  itself 
is  not  beautiful.  The  third  is  now  given  as  truth.  This 
again  is  subordinate  to,  and  modifies,  the  expression  ; 
unity  was  its  method,  truth  is  its  means.  It  is  utter- 
ance through  natural  and  real,  not  through  artificial 
and  arbitrary  signs.  The  expression  stands  in  most 
immediate  connection  with  things  and  facts,  and  thus  is 
true.  Beautiful  expression  in  art  is  the  unity  of  true 
signs  in  the  utterance  of  worthy  emotion.  Nature  in 
her  work  gives  us  the  method,  and  our  adherence 
must  be  faithful,  — gives  us  the  language  of  all  dead 
and  living  forces,  and  our  use  of  this  must  be,  to  the 
last  degree,  accurate. 

Two  things  may  seem  to  contradict  this  assertion,  — 
the  conventional  and  grotesque  in  art,  and  the  arbitrary 
signs  exclusively  employed  in  poetry. 

The  conventional  is  that  which  by  tacit  agreement 
stands  for  something  which  it  is  not  in  itself  able  to 


68 


LECTURE  Y. 


represent.  It  especially  appears  in  the  carvings  of 
architecture,  where  the  completed  form  of  the  plant  or 
animal  escaping  the  chisel,  a few  strongly  wrought  lines 
take  the  place  of  finished  work.  The  conventional,  — 
and  the  same  is  true  of  the  grotesque,  — if  wholly  arbi- 
trary, is  not  of  itself  beautiful,  and  becomes  a mere 
member,  like  a moulding,  to  be  judged  solely  by  its 
relations,  — by  the  general  effect.  It  has  no  agree- 
ment, more  or  less,  with  nature,  and  hence  there  is  no 
opportunity  for  truth.  If,  however,  it  boldly  strikes  at 
the  reality,  it  may  then  become  a curt  truth,  worthy  in 
itself  of  consideration,  though  unable  to  tell  all  that 
might  have  been  told.  Intrinsic  beauty  here,  however, 
as  elsewhere,  is  dependent  on  the  faithfulness  of  what 
is  done,  be  it  more  or  less. 

In  poetry,  the  signs  are,  indeed,  wholly  arbitrary;  but 
the  beauty  is  not  in  these,  or  what  they  present  to  the 
eye,  but  in  the  images  presented  through  them  to  the 
mind,  and  these  images  must  be  faithful. 

Rhythm,  and  a certain  agreement  of  sounds  with  the 
thought,  may  enhance  the  effect  to  the  ear,  but  only  be- 
cause there  now  begins  to  spring  up  a resemblance  to 
the  real, — a somewhat  obscure  truth.  So  far  as  poetry 
is  representative,  the  necessity  of  truth  is  as  great  here 
as  elsewhere.  The  possible,  the  probable,  are  counter- 
parts of  the  real,  and  reached  through  it ; and  these 
assign  limits  to  all  poetic  presentation,  be  it  epic  or  dra- 
matic, lyric  or  descriptive.  Things  that  are,  are  facts  ; 
things  that  may  be,  are  truths.  Both  contain  the  same' 
principles,  the  same  laws  of  being  and  action,  the  same 
appeal  to  the  thoughtful  mind,  — the  one,  because  it  is  ; 
the  other,  through  its  agreement  with  that  which  is,  be- 
cause it  utters  the  same  lessons  and  the  same  laws. 


TRUTH  IN  POETRY. 


69 


The  one  contains  beyond  the  other  only  the  single  item 
of  a precise,  historic  existence.  The  actual,  in  its  acci- 
dents, iii  its  names  and  dates,  lias  appeared  but  once ; 
in  its  essentials,  it  is  constantly  reappearing,  repeating 
itself  at  intervals  everywhere  through  the  complex  pat- 
tern woven  in  the  same  loom  under  similar  conditions. 
This  it  is  which  gives  to  the  real  its  value,  converting 
facts  into  principles  and  history  into  philosophy.  This 
also  is  the  truth  of  poetry.  In  emotion  it  utters  that 
which  may  be,  that,  therefore,  which  a thousand  times 
has  been,  and,  in  this  its  mastery  of  the  actual,  rules 
the  heart.  There  is  more  truth  in  that  which  may 
often  be,  than  in  that  which  is  known  to  have  been  but 
once.  There  is  little  value  in  any  conception  which 
has  not  that  agreement  with  facts  which  makes  it  possi- 
ble, probable,  truthful. 

Architecture  is,  in  many  particulars,  not  a represent- 
ative art,  and  is,  therefore,  having  no  counterpart  or 
standard  in  nature,  to  be  judged  by  its  own  effect.  The 
same  is  true,  in  a yet  higher  degree,  of  music.  Truth, 
then,  as  a characteristic  of  beauty,  must  not  only  be 
limited  to  the  fine  arts,  but  yet  further  limited  to  those 
which  have  a correspondence  or  resemblance  to  nature, 
— that  is,  primarily,  to  poetry,  painting,  and  sculpture. 

It  is  in  connection  with  these  arts,  and  the  quality  of 
truth  belonging  to  them,  that  we  can  best  apprehend 
the  relation  of  the  real  to  the  ideal,  — of  nature  to  art. 
The  field  which  nature  occupies  she  occupies  not  to  the 
exclusion  of  man,  but  for  his  instruction  and  guidance. 
Though  much  in  the  world  of  living  forms  is  not  com- 
plete, the  suggestion  of  completeness  is  everywhere 
present.  The  mind  is  not  suffered  to  feel  that  it  per- 
fects a plan  which  the  Architect  of  the  world  was  not 


70 


LECTURE  V. 


able  to  perfect,  — that  it  discovers  the  failing  strength 
of  an  art  grand  indeed  in  its  rudiments,  but  unfinished, 
— and  is  called  in  to  complete  the  too  great  undertak- 
ing. The  execution  is  not  pushed  to  a point  at  which 
the  conception  fails,  but  the  outlines  and  plans  are  ever 
in  advance  of  the  work ; and  man,  as  a journeyman 
artist,  is  employed  in  the  study  and  realization  of  these. 
Human  genius,  however  powerful  its  command  of  beau- 
tiful forms,  adds  no  new  species  either  to  the  animal  or 
the  vegetable  kingdom,  — no  new  phases  either  to  land, 
water,  or  cloud  scenery.  Its  strength  is  fully  tasked  in 
the  study  and  mastery  of  that  boundless  variety  already 
present.  The  expression  in  nature  is  so  manifold  and 
powerful  as  more  than  to  occupy  the  mind  in  its  acqui- 
sition,— as  more  than  to  meet  its  utmost  demand  in 
bodying  forth  its  own  emotions  ; and  man  has  thus 
neither  ability  nor  occasion  to  add  to  the  resources  of 
assthetical  feeling  laid  open  to  him  in  the  world  of  phys- 
ical forces.  The  office  of  art  is,  here,  not  the  invention 
in  elements  of  that  which  is  new,  but  the  fresh  and 
powerful  use  of  that  which  is  old,  — of  that  which  is 
familiar,  of  that  whose  power  passes  under  the  hourly 
observation  of  men. 

Nature  is  the  source  of  beauty,  and  our  guide  in 
its  pursuit,  since  she  gives  us,  in  all  their  variety,  the 
forms  under  which  inorganic  and  organic  forces  in  the 
progress  of  a creative  plan  present  themselves.  The 
first  steps  in  representative  art  are  a full  possession 
of  all  the  facts  in  the  department  considered,  of  what 
in  nature  is  there  uttered,  and  of  the  method  in  which 
it  is  uttered.  It  is  no  more  possible  to  be  eloquent 
to  the  heart  through  the  eye  without  a careful  reali- 
zation of  color  and  form,  than  to  reach  it  through  the 


THE  IDEAL  AND  REAL. 


71 


ear  without  the  vocables  of  familiar  speech.  Art  must 
be  strictly  and  protractedly  imitative,  till  it  has  mas- 
tered the  symbols  through  which  it  works  ; and  that 
art  will  be  most  powerful  which  has  best  learned. this 
its  first  lesson ; that  has  put  itself  in  complete  pos- 
session of  the  only  means  through  which  it  can  after- 
ward express  its  own  feelings.  These  means  of  ex- 
pression, which  are  form  and  color  as  existing  in  nature, 
we  have  spoken  of  as  the  signs,  letters,  symbols,  rudi- 
ments, elements  of  art,  in  order  that  we  might  by  these 
words  mark  the  extent  of  the  analysis  which  should 
take  place  in  the  study  of  the  external  world. 

He  who  copies  a single  scene  is  strictly  and  solely 
imitative,  adds  nothing  to  what  he  has  received,  and 
is  measured  by  it.  The  accurate  sketch  of  a land- 
scape, the  painting  of  a portrait,  imply  skill,  but  no 
more  creative  power  than  the  rehearsal  of  an  oration. 
A step  beyond  this  is  to  discern  the  beauty  of  single 
features  in  the  objects  presented,  and,  retaining  these, 
to  reproduce  them  in  new  combinations.  Here  the 
same  sort  of  taste  is  employed  in  selecting  and  re- 
arranging the  material  as  in  using  the  thoughts  of 
others.  It  is  not,  however,  till  the  mind  has  gone 
further,  and  seen  in  each  form  the  law  and  method 
of  the  force  which  gave  rise  to  it,  — has  seized  its  char- 
acteristics, and  is  able  to  reproduce  it  in  a member 
or  in  a whole  with  something  of  the  freedom  and  bold- 
ness of  nature,  who  scorns  to  imitate  or  repeat  herself, 
— that  it  has  power  over  the  means  with  which  it  may 
itself  work.  Such  an  art  may  paint  landscape,  with- 
out painting  a landscape,  — man,  and  not  a man.  It 
has  the  breadth  of  the  species,  and  not  the  limitations 
of  the  individual,  and  while  impersonating  its  own 


72 


LECTURE  V. 


ideas,  does  so  with  the  double  range  before  its  eye 
of  the  actual  and  the  possible,  of  the  seen  and  the 
suggested.  This  is  to  analyze  expression  into  its  ele- 
ments, and,  by  the  mastery  of  these,  to  hold  the  key 
of  all  combinations,  both  old  and  new.  This  is  at 
once  to  rethink  the  thought  of  the  writer,  to  bring  to 
it  the  resources  of  a full  vocabulary,  and  thus  to  make 
it  forever  one’s  own  in  possession  and  in  use.  It  is  an 
agreement  of  art  with  nature,  in  elements,  in  the 
changing  types  of  form  and  color,  full  and  various  as 
these  are,  that  constitutes  truth,  and  makes  it  infinitely 
more  than  imitation.  Truth  is  only  fully  present, 
when  that  power  is  possessed  to  which  imitation  is  a 
means,  and  when,  therefore,  imitation  is  ready  to  be 
laid  aside.  To  copy  a rock,  plant,  or  animal  is  one 
thing ; to  distinguish  between  its  specific  and  indi- 
vidual characteristics,  and  to  retain  the  one  while  ever 
varying  the  other,  is  a much  higher  thing.  An  art 
that  does  this  is  truthful : its  productions  fall  into  the 
classes  of  science,  and  belong  to  the  cabinet,  and  not 
to  the  museum. 

The  first  gift,  then,  of  nature  to  art  is  the  symbols 
of  expression  employed  in  works  of  beauty,  through 
whose  study  and  imitation  they  are  acquired. 

The  second  is  the  beauty  conferred  in  external  ob- 
jects. The  Divine  thought,  the  Divine  idea,  is  con- 
tained in  these ; and  as  the  perfection  of  the  end  and 
of  the  means  is  discerned,  as  the  conception  is  seen 
working  itself  out  in  successful  and  spontaneous  com- 
pletion, the  mind  is  awakened  to  beauty,  and  receives 
her  most  choice  and  safe  instructions.  In  the  same 
school  in  which  the  elements  of  expression  are  ac- 
quired, the  inventive  power  is  so  quickened  and  trained 


VARIETY  IN  NATURE. 


73 


as  to  possess  that  which  it  may  utter.  It  is  in  the 
studio  of  nature,  in  the  presence  of  forces  ever  ex- 
pending themselves,  ever  renewing  themselves  in  beau- 
tiful forms,  that  art  catches  its  inspiration,  and  finds 
its  own  energies  of  feeling  fostered  into  creative  power. 

The  third  gift  of  nature  arises  partly  from  what 
may  be  termed  the  defect  of  her  execution,  and  still 
more  from  the  variety  and  fulness  of  beauty  which 
she  shows  possible  in  all  departments.  Beauty  in  the 
external  world  is  unprotected  from  accident,  is  left 
open,  especially  in  man,  to  the  trespass  of  the  stern 
laws  of  retribution  and  the  dire  necessities  of  sin.  It 
thus  suggests  much  to  the  mind  which  itself  does  not 
reach,  and  gives  to  man  an  ideal  in  advance  of  the 
fact.  Toward  this  ideal,  man  labors  in  joyful  though 
hopeless  pursuit,  since  each  attainment  does  but  enable 
him  to  enlarge,  to  perfect  in  conception  the  thing  to 
be  attained.  This  ideal  is  an  angelic  guide,  with  whom 
man  travels  an  endless  road  between  two  antipodes, 
the  imperfect  and  the  perfect,  the  human  and  the 
divine.  With  only  the  real,  man  were  stationary,  but 
finding  everywhere  the  suggestion  of  a better  ideal, 
pursuing  this,  he  becomes  progressive. 

The  variety  of  expression  open  to  effort  concurs  to 
the  same  effect.  Beautiful  objects  are  not  all  gradu- 
ated to  one  scale.  There  is  no  optimism,  excellency 
is  shared  among  compeers.  Beauty  is  not  a balanced 
abridgment  of  universal  virtue,  but  is  the  lustre  of 
single  virtues.  While  the  mind  delights  in  this  or 
that  expression,  it  does  not  thereby  exclude  from  its 
pleasures  even  the  counter  expression.  It  presents 
as  many  shifting  phases  of  feeling  as  the  sky  diverse 
forms  of  clouds.  The  variety  in  nature,  while  grati- 

4 


74 


LECTURE  V. 


fying  the  mind,  does  not  exhaust  its  power,  and  there 
still  remain  emotions  which  it  would  utter  in  its  own 
way.  The  unceasing  .changes  about  it  only  teach  it 
the  power  and  scope  of  its  materials,  and  these  it 
makes  haste  to  use  in  a kindred  freedom  of  spirit. 
Nature,  then,  both  in  her  defect  and  variety,  teaches  the 
mind  to  love  and  utter  its  own  ideals,  — ideals  which 
perpetually  enlarge  before  it,  as  it  sees  more  of  the 
force  and  vigorous  methods  of  the  beauty  working 
in  nature,  more  of  the  Divine  idea  of  facts,  more  of 
the  goal  prophetically  present  in  man,  — ideals  with- 
out which  there  would  be  possible  no  independent  or 
valuable  workmanship  to  man,  no  momentum  of  pro- 
gress carrying  him  by  a hair’s  breadth  beyond  the 
actual.  The  ideal  is  but  the  impulse  received  in  our 
movements  through  the  real,  expended  in  the  world 
of  thought,  and  there  wrought  into  that  higher  con- 
ception for  which  alone  training  and  discipline  are 
given.  Without  this  momentum  of  the  mind  which 
reveals  itself  in  new  ideas,  all  scholarship  would  be  ac- 
quisition, all  knowledge,  memory,  all  progress,  patient 
trudging  along  the  one  thoroughfare  of  thought. 

There  are  present  in  nature,  — 

( a .)  Ideas,  creating  and  arranging  thought,  — a feel- 
ing working  itself  out  in  happy  and  benevolent  execu 
tion  ; and 

( b .)  Facts,  things,  often  deficient,  always  varied,  — 
now  beautiful,  now  looking  to  a higher  beauty  some 
where  and  in  some  way  to  be  realized. 

There  are  in  man,  — 

(&.)  An  appreciation  of  the  facts  in  nature,  — of  the 
execution  there  present ; 

(6.)  Of  the  suggestion  in  nature  of  the  impulse  which 


THE  RELATIONS  OF  NATURE  AND  ART. 


75 


it  but  partially  obeys,  partially  completes.  There  is 
thus  an  ideal,  an  idea,  a forming  thought,  furnished  to 
man,  and,  at  the  same  time,  in  the  mastery  of  real  sym- 
bols, a means,  a material,  on  which  this  thought  may 
work,  in  which  it  may  realize  itself. 

Truth  is  the  agreement  of  these  symbols,  these  meth- 
ods, with  those  of  nature  ; and  by  it  the  works,  of  man, 
no  longer  fantastic,  are  made  akin  to  those  of  God,  are 
truths  in  that  they  repeat  the  same  great  laws,  and  are 
but  phases  of  the  forces  which  work  the  world.  The 
ideal  of  man  working  itself  out  truthfully  becomes,  as 
it  were,  a new  and  most  significant  fact  amid  the  facts 
of  nature,  — working  itself  out  nobly,  becomes  a new 
and  redeeming  fact  amid  the  facts  of  nature.  The  ar- 
tist taught  by  nature  works  with  nature,  rescues  her 
from  contravening  and  hostile  forces,  adds  to  her  vari- 
ety, and,  seizing  her  best  thoughts,  labors  on  them  in 
statue  and  painting. 

Landscape  gardening,  an  art  presen tative  rather  than 
representative,  will  furnish  us  a closing  illustration  of 
nature’s  treatment  of  man.  By  a skilful  use  of  plants, 
shrubs,  and  trees,  almost  any  spot  can  be  greatly  orna- 
mented. The  valley,  grove,  and  brook-side,  though 
beautiful,  are  not  as  beautiful  as  they  may  readily  be 
made  to  be  ; and  man  is  encouraged  to  effort  both  by 
the  means  furnished  and  the  necessity  imposed.  There 
is  sufficient  beauty  present  in  the  untrained  growth  to 
call  out  his  taste,  and  awaken  his  desires  ; and  in  the 
same  install  t a labor  is  imposed  upon  him,  if*iie  would 
employ  and  perfect  the  material  ready  to  his  hand. 

Nor  is  this  all : nature  refuses  her  own  wild  beauty 
to  one  who  fails  to  train  and  culture  it.  Every  place 
becomes  better  or  worse  under  the  hand  of  man.  All 


76 


LECTURE  V. 


noxious  weeds  — slovenly  and  ragged  in  habit,  offen- 
sive in  odor,  rank  in  growth,  prolific  in  generation,  with 
burred  seed-vessel  catching  to  man  and  beast  — gather 
about  and  hunt  down  the  sluggard,  — avengers  of  na- 
ture’s wrong.  These  make  an  admonition  of  every 
neglected  home,  and,  nodding  in  unseemly,  unprofit- 
able growth  about  the  cheerless  dwelling,  seem  to  say, 
“ Out  of  thine  own  mouth  I condemn  thee,  and  com- 
plete thine  own  work.” 

There  is  no  spot  so  void  of  beauty,  so  utterly  de- 
formed, as  the  unkept  abode  of  man.  It  forfeits  the 
rugged  yet  chaste  beauty  of  nature,  and  is  smothered 
with  the  teeming  ugliness  which  its  own  filth  engen- 
ders. 


LECTURE  VI. 


SYMBOLS  OF  EXPRESSION.  — FORM.  — COLOR.  — LIGHT  AND 
SHADE.  — MOTION.  — SOUND. 

Beauty,  as  a primary,  underived  quality,  is  incapable 
of  a definition,  and  we  have  contented  ourselves,  there- 
fore, with  pointing  out  some  of  the  conditions  of  its 
presence,  — that  in  objects  which  is  its  occasion.  The 
first  given  was  expression,  — a thought  and  feeling,  an 
idea.  But,  as  the  expression  itself  is  not  the  beauty, 
neither  does  all  expression  give  rise  to  beauty,  we  en- 
deavored to  show  further  what,  in  plan  and  idea,  have 
this  additional  power  over  the  mind,  quickening  it  to 
a new  and  most  pleasurable  perception. 

The  second  condition  given  was  unity,  — a quality 
of  expression  by  which  it  becomes  a complete,  in  all 
its  parts  a concurrent,  sentiment.  The  last  condition 
stated,  and  one  more  restricted  than  either  of  the  oth- 
ers, was  truth.  Nature  has  a method  in  which  her 
ideas  are  uttered,  under  which  her  orderly  forms  act. 
Truth  in  art  is  an  accurate  concurrence  of  method  with 
that  found  in  corresponding  facts.  True  art  can  al- 
ways find  both  corresponding  facts  and  corresponding 
methods,  — corresponding  facts,  because  its  ideal  has 
arisen  under  the  suggestion  and  in  the  pathway  of 
nature  ; corresponding  methods,  because  it  has  been 
taught  all  its  symbols  by  nature. 

What  these  symbols  are,  what  the  things  which  to 


78 


LECTURE  VI. 


the  senses  betoken  and  convey  the  idea,  we  shall  now 
inquire.  It  is  evident,  that  all  these  symbols  of  thought, 
and  signs  of  feeling,  must  be  such  as  present  them- 
selves to  the  senses,  since  beauty  inheres  in  objects 
and  actions,  and  these  become  subjects  of  contempla- 
tion through  the  senses,  or  the  imagination,  acting 
under  the  law  of  the  senses.  It  is  also  evident  that 
our  several  senses  will  be  avenues  to  these  signs  only 
as  they  are  capable  of  a clear  presentation  of  the 
complex  and  the  combined.  The  eye  has,  in  this 
respect,  the  greatest  power,  and  therefore  becomes 
the  chief  medium  of  beautiful  impressions.  The  ear, 
through  language,  gives  to  the  inner  eye  of  imagina- 
tion the  reflection  and  counterpart  of  external  vision, 
and  thus  indirectly  becomes  a dependent,  secondary 
avenue  to  beauty.  In  music,  the  sense  of  hearing 
opens  a direct  inlet  to  a distinct  and  full  department 
of  expression.  The  other  senses  drop  abruptly  below 
these  two,  are  so  single  and  local  in  the  sensations 
which  they  confer,  so  lose  their  burden  in  the  organ, 
and  transfer  so  little  to  the  intellect,  and  are  so  over- 
borne and  displaced  by  the  higher  organs,  as  not  to  be 
the  instruments  of  taste. 

The  eye,  the  great  highway  of  the  mind,  takes  cog- 
nizance in  extreme  analysis  of  several  distinct  things. 

Form  is  here  the  first  great  means  of  expression,  — 
the  most  immediate  and  inevitable  product  of  all 
arranging  thought.  Form  is  here  used  in  its  fullest 
signification,  and  includes  not  merely  outlines,  but 
superficies  in  all  their  tracings  and  irregularities.  Ex- 
pression, in  opaque  bodies  at  least,  is  limited  to  sur- 
faces, to  the  arrangement  of  parts  on  these,  and  of 
these  in  reference  to  each  other.  Beauty,  as  veining, 


FORM. 


79 


does  indeed  penetrate  some  bodies,  but  it  only  becomes 
manifest  beauty  by  their  section  or  cleavage. 

Matter  being  given,  the  very  first  action  of  force  is 
indicated  by  a change  of  form,  and  the  nature  of  the 
resulting  form  is  our  only  index  of  the  character  of 
the  force,  and  of  the  thought  which  set  the  force  in 
motion.  Entire  irregularity  is  confusion,  is  chaos,  and 
a change  from  irregularity  to  irregularity  is  aimless 
and  barren.  An  apprehensible  form  is  the  first  product 
of  creating  power,  which,  the  elements  of  matter  all 
present,  is  nothing  but  arranging  power.  The  more 
simple  and  mathematical  the  form,  — for  mathematics, 
in  all  its  pride,  reaches  but  first  principles  in  the  fig- 
ures and  curves  which  it  discusses,  and  in  the  powers 
of  nature  whose  action  these  restrict,  — the  more  lim- 
ited and  rudimental  is  the  force,  and  the  more  simple 
the  idea  indicated.  The  crystal  and  the  sphere,  which 
may  be  said  to  be  the  fulness  of  geometry,  are  reached 
in  an  instant,  and  everywhere  are  primal  forms  in 
nature’s  action.  So  restricted  in  expression  are  all 
regular  figures,  that  but  two  arts  employ  them  to  any 
considerable  extent,  landscape  gardening  and  architec- 
ture ; the  first,  in  any  high  state,  always  escaping  into 
that  which  is  freer  and  fuller ; the  second,  though 
sternly  circumscribed  by  its  material  and  uses,  yet,  for 
its  tracery  and  ornament,  ever  reaching  up  into  the 
higher  realms  of  animate  nature. 

As  form  feels,  betrays,  and  measures  every  move- 
ment, every  advance,  of  the  creative  thought,  it  must 
instantly  become  more  complex  as  this  gathers  scope 
and  power,  — as  the  plan  begins  to  include  more,  and 
the  parts,  standing  in  broader  and  more  numerous  rela- 
tions, to  suffer  more  modifications.  Complexity  of  form 


80 


LECTURE  VI. 


will  be  measured  by  complexity  of  uses,  — the  number 
of  offices  performed  by  the  instrument,  the  number  of 
changes  wrought  in  or  with  the  machine.  The  instru- 
ment is  more  graceful  than  the  machine,  as  more  com- 
pact and  single.  God’s  work  in  nature  is  instrumental 
rather  than  mechanical.  The  body  is  rather  the  mind’s 
instrument  than  the  mind’s  machine  ; the  plant,  the 
agent  of  a living  principle,  than  a manufactory  of  vege- 
table acids. 

These  two  thoughts  borne  in  mind,  — that,  with  each 
advance  of  plan  through  the  range  of  life,  vegetable, 
animal,  and  rational,  there  is  ever  a more  complex  end, 
wider  relations,  and  also  a more  immediate,  instrumen- 
tal, and  personal  use,  by  each  living  principle,  of  its 
own  forces  and  organs,  — and  we  shall  at  once  see  that 
form,  in  happy  obedience  to  these  new  and  numerous 
necessities,  will  have  a wonderful  revelation  to  make, 
both  of  the  variety  and  ductility  of  material,  and  of 
the  thousand  chemical  and  mechanical  processes  which 
take  place  in  and  through  it,  without  the  heat  of  fur- 
nace or  sound  of  wheel.  Here  is  an  opportunity  in 
form  for  u the  felicitous  fulfilment  of  living  function,” 
— for  a thought  of  love  most  skilfully  executed,  — for 
beauty.  Form  — pliant,  flexible,  full  of  office  — be- 
comes more  and  more  the  seat  of  thought,  more  and 
more  able  to  mark  the  progress  of  the  Creator’s  work. 

As  form  is  condensed  and  intensified  in  expression, — 
as  every  line  and  curve  become  significant,  till  within 
the  breadth  of  the  human  face  the  character  of  all  gen- 
erations is  written,  — it  will  be  observed  that  variety, 
though  not  less,  is  less  bold,  is  held  within  narrower 
limits.  If  the  machine  combines  but  a few  wheels,  the 
position  of  any  one  may  be  readily  changed  ; if  many, 


VARIETY  LESS  BOLD  IN  HIGH  PRODUCTS. 


81 


this  is  done  with  more  difficulty,  for  a system  of  com- 
plex interdependence  is  thereby  broken.  Plants  of  the 
same  species  differ  widely  from  each  other  in  the  num- 
ber, arrangement,  and  outline  of  their  members.  As 
the  plan  is  not  yet  full  or  complex,  it  takes  to  itself 
more  license,  the  relation  of  parts  is  more  readily  shift- 
ed, and  by  this  change  the  freshness  of  expression  is 
preserved,  small  differences  are  less  obvious,  and  vari- 
ety is  secured  with  a bolder  hand.  The  changes  which 
make  one  tree  to  differ  from  another  are  as  much  great- 
er than  those  between  man  and  man  as  the  plant  is  less 
expressive,  less  complete  in  its  form,  less  complex  in  its 
organization  and  relations,  than  the  man.  The  very 
amount  and  perfection  of  the  work  in  the  human  body 
straitens  the  variety  of  form  which  it  may  assume,  and 
yet  adds  to  the  power  of  the  slightest  change.  While 
plants  differ  more  from  each  other,  they  are  less  readily 
discriminated  from  each  other  than  men.  The  human 
face,  while  true  to  itself  in  all  leading  characteristics,  is, 
in  the  power  of  its  variety,  in  the  spiritual  tidings  which 
are  signalled  in  it,  unmeasured. 

Akin  to  this  is  the  number  of  species  by  which  the 
beauty  of  the  lower  kingdoms  is  sustained,  as  against 
the  higher.  Contrast  grasses  with  forest-trees ; insects 
with  birds  and  mammals.  In  preserving  the  balance, 
quantity  is  made,  in  part,  to  take  the  place  of  quality, 
and  in  the  prodigality  of  workmanship,  we  lose  the 
sense  of  inferiority.  Man,  while  gathering  into  him- 
self the  crowning  excellences  of  form,  stands  over 
against  and  outweighs  a physical  world,  striking  in 
every  single  feature,  and  marvellous  in  its  range. 

It  has  been  questioned  whether  beauty  has  any  real 
existence  aside  from  the  percipient.  It  has  as  perma- 

4*  F 


82 


LECTURE  VI. 


nent  and  independent  an  existence  as  that  in  which 
it  inheres.  Each  advance  of  order  upon  disorder,  of 
creation  upon  chaos,  marks  the  presence  of  a forma- 
tive idea,  and  this,  as  seen  in  its  product,  gives  rise 
to  the  impression  of  beauty,  not  by  virtue  of  any- 
thing in  the  percipient  beyond  a receptive  power,  but 
through  a quality  which,  the  object  unchanged,  re- 
mains in  it  the  same  for  all  rational  beings.  Beauty 
does  exist  as  a permanent  attribute  of  the  appropriate 
expression.  The  progress  of  creation  develops  not 
simply  truth,  but  beauty  for  all  intelligences.  Beauty 
is  the  form  and  aptness  of  appropriate  truth. 

As  form,  though  greatly  varied,  though  complicated 
and  elaborate  in  details  as  presented  in  nature,  is  yet 
wholly  subject  to  law,  exists  in  every  modification 
through  reason  and  for  a reason,  is  ever  expressive 
of  some  new  change  of  the  living  principle,  some  new 
uses  and  necessities,  it  is  evident  that  this  most  funda- 
mental symbol  must  be  thoroughly  studied,  and  only 
as  it  is  accurately  presented  can  any  work  claim  to 
be  in  sympathy  with  an  actual  creation,  representa- 
tive of  real  forces,  of  that  ever-present,  efficient,  and 
Divine  idea  which  makes  the  world  beautiful. 

Ignorance  may  disguise  discrepancies,  but  art  must 
know  what  forms  have  been  wrought  out  by  what 
forces,' what  parts  give  perfect  play  to  what  powers. 
Such  a knowledge  of  form  is  attendant  upon  a knowl- 
edge of  the  characteristic  differences  and  necessities 
of  each  kind  of  life.  One,  through  naked  imitation, 
may,  to  a limited  degree,  learn  the  lessons  of  form ; 
but  so  perfectly  is  form  the  result  of  a thought  work- 
ing in  a given  material  toward  a given  end,  that,  some- 
times at  least,  the  artist  may  seem  to  seize  the  nature 


COLOR. 


83 


of  the  principle  with  which  he  deals,  and,  working  in 
the  very  current  of  the  stream,  to  shape  the  shores 
of  the  living  powers  as  they  run  parallel  with,  or  give 
way  before,  the  ruling  force. 

The  second  symbol  of  beauty  to  the  eye  is  color. 
This  symbol  seems  to  have  a less  intimate  connection 
with  the  power  at  work,  and  therefore  to  be  a less 
important  medium  of  expression  and  of  beauty  than 
form.  To  our  present  apprehensions,  color  presents 
itself  more  as  a matter  of  accident,  more  as  a surface 
ornament,  than  as  an  inevitable  product  of  the  idea 
present,  — as  a part  of  that  idea.  This  judgment  of 
color  is  evidently  partly,  and  may  be  completely  wrong. 
As  the  mere  accident  which  we  deem  it,  color  is  still 
included  within,  is  still  a constituent  of  the  design, 
for  this  admits  of  no  strict,  no  real  accidents.  It  has 
less,  perchance,  but,  as  a thing  contemplated,  its  own 
share,  of  expression.  If  we  recollect,  also,  that  color 
is  the  result  of  the  action  of  surface  particles  on  light, 
it  may  be  that  the  arrangement  of  atoms  which  secures 
one  color  rather  than  another,  stands  in  more  intimate 
connection  than  we  now  think  with  the  very  nature 
of  the  formative  principle  present. 

As  we  have  but  a limited  notion  of  the  connection 
of  color  with  the  forces  at  work,  and  as,  therefore,  its 
speech  — its  expression  — is  in  this  direction  restricted, 
we  must  look  elsewhere  for  much  of  its  power. 

(a.)  Most  important  among  the  considerations  which 
indirectly  impart  power  to  color,  is,  that  through  it 
alone  can  complex  form  be  brought  out.  Outline  is 
independent  of  color,  but  the  pattern  of  surfaces  is 
greatly  dependent  upon  it.  We  are  readily  deceived 
and  led  to  ascribe  to  color  what  properly  belongs  to 


84 


LECTURE  VI. 


form.  The  veining  of  marble  or  of  the  petals  of  flowers, 
the  variegated  landscape,  are  beautiful,  but  largely 
through  the  pleasing  forms  presented  and  brought  to 
the  eye  by  different  colors.  Let  the  patterns  be  pre- 
served, and,  though  the  shades  are  changed,  we  may 
often  find  that  the  staple  of  our  satisfaction  remains. 
Wall-paper  and  other  prints  are  so  varied  frequently, 
with  only  slight  gains  or  losses.  Not  that  the  color  is 
a matter  of  indifference,  but  that  often  when  most 
important,  this  importance  arises  from  its  relation  to 
the  form,  from  the  greater  or  less  relief  which  it  gives 
to  it.  Much,  then,  of  the  pleasure  which  we  carelessly 
refer  to  color,  is  really  to  be  referred  to  form. 

(6.)  The  impressions  on  the  organs  of  sense  which 
different  colors  make  are  different’. 

Brilliant  colors  attract  and  please  the  eye,  partly 
through  novelty,  partly  through  a stronger  organic 
effect.  Other  more  neutral  colors  rest  the  eye,  and 
others,  through  their  more  common,  obscure,  and  min- 
gled character,  producing  no  distinct  effect  upon  it, 
suffer  neglect.  Colors,  having  these  their  sensuous 
impressions,  when  employed  in  connection  with  beau- 
tiful forms,  are,  according  to  their  several  natures,  un- 
pleasant, animating,  or  tranquil,  and  lend  these  char- 
acteristics to  the  object. 

(c.)  Colors'  come  to  the  mind  with  various  associa- 
tions ; that  is,  with  an  acquired  power  of  expression. 
Brillant  colors  acquire  gayety,  and  sombre  colors  yet 
more  of  sadness,  from  the  scenes  in  which  they  figure. 
Imperial  purple,  funereal  black,  priestly  white,  and 
Quaker  drab,  have  each  their  power  greatly  enhanced 
by  the  service  to  which  they  have  been  set  apart.  The 
plumage  of  a splendid  bird  or  the  tints  of  a fine  flower 


INFERIORITY  OF  COLOR. 


85 


may  increase  our  partiality  for  particular  colors.  Azure, 
violet,  and  lilac,  orange,  olive,  and  rose,  testify  to  the 
source  of  different  shades,  and  to  their  impression  en- 
hanced through  association. 

To  a certain  degree,  inferiority  is  attached  to  color 
as  a symbol,  by  the  use  which  is  made  of  it  in  the  ex- 
ternal world.  Form  is  much  more  unchanging  than 
color.  Indeed,  when  the  last  is  not  fixed  through  a 
scientific  necessity,  as  it  were,  that  it  may  aid  us  in  dis- 
criminating species,  it  seems  wholly  wayward.  The 
rose,  the  tulip,  the  verbena,  the  China  aster,  have  no 
limit  to  their  wardrobe  of  shifting  colors.  A more  sig- 
nificant fact,  however,  is  that,  while  form  becomes  more 
complex  and  perfect  from  lowest  to  highest,  no  such 
gradation  is  found  in  color.  The  inorganic  world  pre- 
sents some  of  our  most  brilliant  displays  in  this  respect ; 
witness  the  gems  and  the  clouds.  The  lower  organic 
creations  are,  as  a class,  more  showy  than  the  higher ; 
witness  sea-mosses,  shells,  and  insects.  In  man,  color 
almost  wholly  drops  away,  or,  if  present,  is  so  to  limit, 
rather  than  to  enlarge,  expression.  Solomon  in  all 
his  glory  was  not  arrayed  like  the  lily.  The  distinction 
lay  in  color,  not  in  form.  Both  the  word  arrayed  and 
the  fact  are  derogatory  to  color.  Brilliant  hues  are 
added  to  the  inferior  by  way  of  compensation ; the 
superior  is  lifted  above  ornament,  above  array.  The 
Caucasian  blush,  which  is  certainly  the  most  significant 
use  of  color  in  man,  derives  its  power  not  half  so  much 
from  its  character  as  color,  as  from  the  intimate  and 
most  unusual  connection  it  is  seen  to  have  with  the 
forces  of  life  beneath.  The  power  of  the  blush,  beyond 
the  pigment,  beyond  mere  paint,  is  that  it  is  seen  to 
come  and  go.  By  virtue  of  this,  it  stands  in  the  same 


86 


LECTURE  VI. 


intimate  connection  with  the  vital  power  as  form.  If 
all  color  were  seen  to  be  the  suflusion  of  a vigorous  or 
a virtuous  life,  it  would  instantly  gain  over  us  an  en- 
tirely new  power. 

In  this  connection,  it  is  worthy  of  remark,  that  while 
hair  seems  to  man  primarily  an  ornament,  its  chosen 
colors  are  shades  of  black,  passing  with  age  into  white, 
— the  only  two  negatives,  — and  that  all  brilliant  color 
is  alike  uncommon  and  ungrateful. 

The  use  of  the  terms  gaudy  and  modest  has  also 
something  of  this  disparagement  of  color.  The  per- 
petual variety  which  fashion  feels  called  on  to  furnish 
is  equally  an  abuse  of  form  and  color,  and  shows  her 
action  a fantastic  pursuit  of  novelty,  with  but  slight 
reference  to  taste. 

While  form  is  the  basis  and  framework  of  beauty  in 
the  world,  the  most  sensible  and  immediate  part  of 
the  effect  is  often  due  to  color.  Much  is  appreciated 
through  it  which  would  otherwise  remain  unfelt.  It 
lays  hold  more  strongly  of  the  senses,  and,  arresting 
us,  leads  us  to  a more  intimate  knowledge  of  form,  and 
the  more  intellectual  lessons  there  taught.  The  bril- 
liancy, vivacity,  and  cheerfulness  of  the  world  are  due 
to  color ; its  depth  of  emotional  power  to  form. 

As  there  is  a broad,  careful,  powerful,  determinate, 
and  appreciative  use  of  color  in  the  world,  it,  as  a sym- 
bol of  expression,  claims  most  accurate  study. 

A third  of  those  symbols  which  address  themselves  to 
the  eye,  is  light  and  shade,  — chiaro-oscuro. 

This  is  certainly  not  less  important  than  color.  The 
one  arises  from  light  as  a compound,  the  other  from  it 
as  a simple.  Color  results  from  the  decomposition  of 
light  on  the  surfaces  of  bodies  ; light  and  shade,  from 


LIGHT  AND  SHADE 


87 


the  interception  and  reflection  of  light  by  bodies.  The 
one  has  reference  to  those  modifications  of  light  which 
affect  its  kind,  as  in  the  painting ; the  other,  to  those 
which  affect  its  degree,  as  in  the  engraving. 

Shade  stands  in  more  intimate  relation  with  form 
than  does  color.  As  shadow,  it  is  the  repetition  of  out- 
line under  those  regular  but  multifold  changes  which 
the  relation  of  the  body  to  the  light  occasions  ; as  vary- 
ing in  intensity,  it  owes  its  variety  to  the  form  of  sur- 
faces. 

Light  and  shade  demand  most  careful  study  and 
treatment,  both  for  the  beauty  of  their  effects  and  the 
number  of  truths  which  are  committed  to  them. 

The  heavy  shadows  which  lie  along  the  valleys  and 
choke  the  ravines  at  early  day,  as  if  the  now  broken 
forces  of  night  were  skulking  in  mountain  retreats,  and 
eluding  the  shafts  of  light  behind  every  barrier,  — the 
thronging  shadows  of  evening  which,  aware  of  their 
hour,  rally  from  their  defeat,  and  come  creeping  forth 
from  all  their  hiding-places,  till  they  have  again  locked 
arms  in  solid  phalanx,  — the  spectral  shadows  of  a sum- 
mer’s night,  dark  as  the  angles  of  a city  whose  mystery 
and  concealment  take  refuge  even  from  the  mild  moon, 
— the  rippling  lake,  flashing  like  a shivered  mirror,  or 
hiding  another  world  beneath  its  surface  ; — all  testify 
to  the  fascinating  power  of  light  and  shade,  and  the 
large  share  of  expression  which  has  been  committed  to 
them.  But  this  is  not  all,  — a large  allotment  of  truth 
has  fallen  to  their  share. 

(a.)  Time  is  given  us  by  light  and  shade.  Each 
hour  of  the  day  has  its  own  character  ; — evening,  its 
deepening,  lengthening  shadows  to  mark  the  waning 
movements ; bold  noon,  its  soft,  diminished,  penetrable 


88 


LECTURE  VI. 


shades  ; and  morning,  its  deep,  strong  outline,  exultant 
light  playing  about  the  unwarmed  and  unpenetrated 
recesses. 

To  the  question,  When  ? within  the  circuit  of  the 
day,  light  and  shade  make  answer. 

(6.)  Position  and  distance  are  in  part  committed 
to  these.  Strength  of  light  indicates  the  near,  dimness 
of  light  the  more  remote  objects,  while  shadows,  like 
a system  of  parallel  lines  crossing  the  landscape,  help 
to  mark  the  position  of  every  object.  Allied  to  this  in 
its  effect,  is  the  color  of  the  atmosphere.  The  deeper 
blue  of  the  distant  mountain  and  the  lighter  shade 
of  the  intervening  vales,  not  only  give  a new  variety  to 
the  scene,  but  define  its  relations.  The  heavens  are 
not  azure  for  beauty  alone. 

(c.)  Our  knowledge  of  form  is  largely  dependent 
on  changes  effected  by  it  on  light.  The  shadow  as 
much  explains  the  building  or  the  character  of  any 
solid  to  the  eye,  as  the  solid  determines  the  shadow. 
So  much  are  shadows  and  things  the  counterparts  and 
charts  of  each  other  in  every  changing  phase  of  light, 
that  we  hardly  know  for  what  share  of  our  information 
we  are  indebted  to  the  one,  and  for  what  to  the  other. 
Certain  it  is,  that  the  eye  arrives  at  form  mainly  through 
light  and  shade.  Through  this  medium  alone  do  plane 
surfaces  represent  to  us  every  variety  of  solids.  This 
is  accomplished  through  different  intensities  of  light, 
equally  when  color  is  present  as  without  it.  Every  sur- 
face, of  whatever  color,  is  affected  by  the  power  of  the 
light  resting  upon  it,  and  the  principles  of  light  and 
shade  have,  in  kind,  the  same  application  in  a painting 
as  in  an  engraving.  Not  an  inch  of  canvas  can  be 
treated  without  reference  to  the  effect  oi  unequal  light. 


SUSCEPTIBILITY  OF  LIGHT. 


89 


The  inexhaustible  variety  of  colors  in  the  sky  is  due 
to  the  effect  of  light  on  the  same  material  at  different  ' 
distances  and  angles.  Whatever  we  paint,  the  convolu- 
tions of  a cloud  or  of  a garment,  the  relation  of  parts 
is  found  and  told  in  the  shifting  shades.  So  susceptible 
is  this  subtile  material,  light,  that  each  circumstance 
traces  itself  in  a change  of  effect,  and  every  effect, 
therefore,  reveals  a circumstance.  So  accustomed  is 
the  mind  to  this  instant  information  which  light  gives 
through  its  own  modifications,  that  it  utterly  fails  to 
distinguish  between  that  which  is  seen  and  that  which 
is  inferred,  and  is  surprised  to  find  the  larger  share 
of  its  visual  knowledge  of  the  latter  kind.  Change- 
ableness, a susceptibility  of  endless  degrees,  is  a prime 
quality  of  light  as  a revealing  power. 

( d. ) Another  class  of  implicated  truths  dependent  on 
light  and  shade,  to  which  we  can  only  make  reference, 
arises  from  reflection,  the  mingling  of  reflected  and 
transmitted  light.  A stream  presents  three  objects  or 
scenes,  sinking  downward  one  below  the  other : the  sur- 
face of  the  water,  the  bottom  on  which  it  rests,  and  the 
reflection  of  the  banks.  These  may  sometimes  all  be 
seen  from  the  same  position,  and  sometimes  one  to  the 
exclusion  of  the  other,  according  to  the  light  and  the 
point  of  the  beholder.  If  a strong  light  is  reflected 
from  the  surface,  this  alone  of  the  three  will  remain 
visible,  but  let  the  shadow  of  a cloud  fall  on  the  stream 
and  it  will  then  yield  prominently  the  image  of  the 
bank  if  the  water  is  deep,  if  shallow,  the  bottom  prom- 
inently, and  the  surface  and  the  reflection  obscurely. 

A ripple,  by  multiplying  reflecting  surfaces  and  shift- 
ing their  angles,  will  proportionately  lengthen  and  dif- 
fuse the  light,  and  will  repeat  certain  objects,  distort 


90 


LECTURE  VI. 


some,  and  omit  others  in  the  image  below.  To  the 
conditions  before  present  in  simple  light  and  shade, 
there  are  now  added,  in  treating  water,  its  depth  and 
color,  its  transmitted  and  reflected  light,  its  variable- 
ness of  surface  and  of  the  light  falling  upon  it.  Upon 
these  will  depend  from  what  quarter  each  object  ren- 
dered to  the  eye  shall  come,  whether  from  the  space 
above,  from  the  bisecting  plane  of  the  surface,  or  from 
the  space  beneath,  and  how  these  objects  shall  in  trans- 
mission  be  modified.  Yet  each  result  obeys  its  own  law, 
and  has  its  own  truth  to  tell. 

The  fourth  visible  symbol  of  beauty  is  motion.  This 
is  expressive  in  several  directions. 

(&.)  The  rapid  motion  of  great  bodies  in  straight  lines 
or  in  simple,  prescribed  curves,  through  the  power  im- 
plied, affects  the  mind  with  the  feelings  of  sublimity. 
Indeed  this  species  of  beauty  is  largely  dependent  on 
motion  present  or  implied,  since  through  this  we  chiefly 
receive  the  impression  of  strength.  The  volume  of  mo- 
mentum, and  the  amount  of  power  therein  obviously 
indicated,  are  the  essential  points.  A large  mass  of 
clouds,  by  the  ease  and  silence  of  a movement  not  ap- 
parently rapid,  excites  the  mind.  Momentum,  which  is 
the  product  of  volume  and  velocity,  must  be  great  to 
impart  sublimity. 

The  want  of  bulk  may  in  part  be  compensated  by 
rapidity,  and  the  want  of  rapidity  by  bulk.  Yet,  as 
all  small  bodies  affect  feebly  the  mind,  velocity,  how- 
ever great,  cannot  wholly  atone  for  deficiency  in  mass. 
The  bullet  and  the  cannon-ball  are  not  sublime.  If 
our  conception  could  keep  pace  with  the  fact,  the  mo- 
tion of  the  heavenly  bodies  is,  in  this  direction,  the 
culmination  of  the  sublime. 


MOTION. 


91 


(A)  Motion  in  free,  undefined  curves  may  give  the 
impression  of  beauty.  Motion  in  straight  lines  and 
defined  curves  is  mechanical,  secured  by  a dead  force ; 
motion  in  free  and  undefined  curves  is  animate,  secured 
by  a living  force.  The  one  — we  speak  not  of  what  is 
always,  but  of  what  is  usually  true  — indicates  power 
received  and  obeyed,  and  becomes  of  interest  only  in 
masses ; the  other,  power  originated  and  self-directed, 
and  has  an  independent  life  and  value  when  lodged 
in  the  most  limited  compass.  There  the  expression 
is  of  ease,  pleasure,  and  grace,  of  the  fulness  of  the 
vital  force,  and  of  its  perfect  self-control.  The  signif- 
icancy  of  form  is  interpreted  through  motion.  The 
chief  adaptations  of  form  are  to  motion,  and  the  en- 
tire necessity  and  compactness  and  symmetry  of  the 
parts  by  which  it  is  secured  are  not  fully  apparent  till 
seen  and  explained  in  vigorous  use.  Attitude  is  but  ar- 
rested motion,  bringing  out  peculiar  adaptations  and 
energies,  and  making  them  the  object  of  more  prolonged 
attention.  The  full  force  of  form  is  only  seen  in  mo- 
tion, and  in  pleasurable  and  powerful  motion  the  beau- 
ty of  animate  objects  passes  to  its  height. 

The  two  extremes  of  movement  are  represented  by  a 
ball  driven  under  impact,  and  by  man  in  the  variety  of 
motions  which  belong  to  his  marvellously  ductile  organ- 
ization. The  one  starts  in  simple  force,  the  other  ends 
in  all  the  varied  applications  and  uses  of  force  which 
belong  to  the  combined  necessities  of  physical,  intel- 
lectual and  spiritual  life.  In  the  barren  and  simple 
rudiment,  power,  there  is  yet  often  present  high  sub- 
limity. 

(c.)  Between  these  extremes  there  is  an  intermediate 
ground,  where  motion  is  neither  wholly  mechanical, 

\ 


92 


LECTURE  VI. 


nor  wholly  vital : such  are  the  waving  of  the  forest 
and,  to  the  fancy,  the  running  of  the  brook.  The  elas- 
tic rebound  of  the  one  and  the  easy  indolence  of  the 
other  chime  in  with  moods  of  mind,  and  add  distinct 
and  changeable  elements  to  the  scene. 

The  first  symbol  to  the  ear  is  words.  These,  however, 
aside  from  rhythm,  — a species  of  music,  — are  nothing 
in  themselves,  stand  only  as  arbitrary  representatives  of 
other  things,  and  are,  therefore,  in  their  subject-matter 
included  in  the  other  means  of  expression.  The  imagi- 
nation works  through  words,  the  eye  works  without 
them,  but  both  work  upon  the  same  objects. 

Sound,  on  the  other  hand,  as  modified  in  music,  be- 
comes a distinct  and  most  powerful  symbol  of  expres- 
sion, the  only  one  given  in  any  other  sense  than  that 
of  sight.  Music,  standing  by  itself  in  its  own  sense,  is 
of  all  the  fine  arts  most  isolated  and  independent,  of 
all  the  fine  arts  requires  the  most  peculiar  gifts  and 
individual  training. 

Poetry,  painting,  sculpture,  architecture,  and  land- 
scape gardening,  given  in  their  symbols  through  the 
eye,  are  intimately  connected,  and  the  training  of  one 
prepares  for  that  of  the  others.  Not  so  with  music.  It 
is  possible  to  be  a musician,  and  to  be  nothing  else ; to 
be  everything  else,  and  not  to  be  a musician. 

Music  probably  acts  more  directly  on  the  feelings 
than  any  other  fine  art.  The  intellectual  element  is 
weaker,  the  emotional  element  stronger  ; the  immediate 
and  powerful  effect  it  has  upon  all  classes  indicates 
this.  It  is  not  the  language  of  thought,  but  of  passion ; 
and  in  swell  and  dirge  gives  direct  impulse  to  emotion. 
Music  seems  capable  of  employment,  with  slight  modi 
fications,  in  most  angelic  and  devilish  service,  as  a 


MUSIC. 


93 


quickener  of  holy  love  and  lascivious  lust.  This  is 
explicable  on  the  ground  of  its  strictly  emotional  char- 
acter. The  person  addressed  furnishes  the  emotion, 
pure  or  impure ; music  inflames  it,  and  wafts  it  on,  — 
the  saint  soars  heavenward,  the  reveller  sinks  hell  ward. 

The  ordinary  avenue,  the  well-trodden  highway  to 
the  heart,  is  through  the  intellect.  Music  seems  to 
have  a path  and  gateway  thither  of  its  own.  This  is  in- 
dicated by  the  facts,  that  no  combination  of  intellectual 
powers  gives  any  promise  of  musical  perception ; that 
this  is  an  original  gift  which  nature  bestows,  unques- 
tioned, on  her  favorites ; and  that  classes  and  races 
relatively  uncultivated  yet  have  a passionate  love  of 
music,  and  high  powers  of  execution.  No  power  is 
certainly  less  within  the  reach  of  mere  cultivation  than 
music. 

The  fulness  and  depth  of  this  form  of  expression 
must  render  him,  the  postern  gate  of  whose  ear  has 
been  locked,  an  acknowledged  unfortunate,  though 
without  the  implication  of  any,  the  slightest,  restric- 
tion either  in  the  range  of  thought  or  feeling.  If  the 
doctrine  entertained  by  some  physiologists  be  true,  that 
the  cochlea  is  the  musical  instrument  of  the  ear,  whose 
special  function  it  is  to  determine  the  gradations  and 
consequent  harmonies  of  sounds,  it  is  plain  that  a phys- 
ical defect  or  derangement  at  this  point  must  interfere 
with  perception,  and  of  course,  through  this,  with  appre- 
ciation. 

These  are  the  symbols  of  a strictly  intellectual  qual- 
ity, beauty ; and,  as  coming  all,  with  one  exception, 
through  sight,  they  witness  to  the  pre-eminence  of  that 
sense. 

It  may  be  thought  that  in  the  symbols  now  given, 


94 


LECTURE  VI. 


no  adequate  provision  is  made  for  moral  beauty.  The 
adjective  beautiful  should  not  be  withheld  from  char- 
acter, but  it  belongs  to  it  rather  as  conceived  in  the 
concrete,  than  in  the  abstract,  rather  as  seen  in  feature 
and  action,  than  in  any  even  balance  and  perfection  of 
qualities  given  in  barren  statement  to  the  intellect. 
Spiritual  force,  like  every  other,  is  revealed  as  beautiful 
in  and  through  its  own  product,  and  this  is  visible. 


LECTURE  VII. 


FACULTY  THROUGH  WHICH  BEAUTY  IS  REACHED.  — STAND- 
ARD OF  TASTE.  — WHY  DISAGREEMENTS.  — TASTE,  HOW 
CULTIVATED,  — THROUGH  KNOWLEDGE,  PURITY,  IMAGINA- 
TION, AND  FANCY. 

Having  discussed  beauty  as  a quality,  that  in  which 
it  inheres,  and  the  signs  by  which  it  presents  itself,  we 
reach  in  order  the  faculty,  — the  mental  power,  which 
arrives  at  this  attribute.  Here  three  suppositions  are 
open  to  us.  This  quality  is  an  external  intuition,  an 
object  of  one  or  all  of  the  senses ; or  it  is  a deduction, 
— the  result  of  reflection,  and  reached  by  reasoning ; 
or  it  is  an  internal  intuition,  — the  object  of  a superior 
rational  sense. 

The  first  is  not  tenable  ; for,  if  beauty  were  the 
direct  object  of  any  one  of  the  senses,  every  one  pos- 
sessed of  this  sense  would  apprehend  it  directly  and 
fully.  Beauty  would  be  as  open  to  the  perception  of 
the  brute  as  the  man,  of  the  uncultured  as  the  cultured. 
The  reverse  of  this  is  true,  and  no  acuteness  of  senses 
is  found  to  secure  this  perception. 

The  second  is  n®t  tenable  ; for,  as  already  shown, 
beauty  is  a simple  and  primary  quality,  and  no  such 
quality  is  the  product  of  reasoning  or  judgment.  No 
synthesis  can  reach  that  which  is  not  combined,  no 
analysis  that  which  is  not  contained  as  a constituent 
in  anything  higher  than  itself.  These  two  processes  of 
reflection,  therefore,  have  no  power  over  beauty,  and, 


96 


LECTURE  VII. 


if  falsely  applied  to  this  idea,  they  immediately  destroy 
it  in  its  own  peculiar  nature,  and  confound  it  with  some 
of  the  ideas  of  which  they  can  take  cognizance,  as  utility 
and  fitness. 

The  third  supposition,  then,  alone  remains  to  us,  that 
this  notion  is  reached  through  an  internal  sense,  an 
intuitive  power  of  the  reason.  Nor  is  the  necessity  of 
the  supposition  its  only  proof.  We  have  seen  the  qual- 
ity, beauty,  not  to  inhere  directly  in  an  external  object, 
as  sweetness  in  the  peach  or  color  in  its  rind,  but  indi- 
rectly through  certain  other  ideas  and  relations  there 
present,  as  right  belongs  to  an  action  which  has  certain 
bearings  on  the  welfare  of  men. 

The  basis  of  beauty,  that  in  which  it  is  discerned, 
may  be  said  to  be  intellectual,  and  not  sensual,  — a 
conception,  and  not  an  object ; form,  and  not  matter  ; 
an  idea,  and  not  the  material  which  that  idea  orders. 
While,  then,  there  is  an  intuition,  we  see  it  cannot 
be  an  intuition  of  the  senses,  for  these  only  furnish 
matter  in  its  properties,  only  act  on  the  material,  and 
the  present  intuition,  going  beyond  this,  must  find  its 
quality  in  a conception,  an  idea,  itself  apprehended 
and  present  by  means  of  a sensation.  The  intuitive 
action,  therefore,  which  reaches  beauty  must  be  pre- 
ceded by  sensation,  and  be  able  to  make  the  concep- 
tion which  sensation  furnishes  the  mind  its  own  object. 
In  each  material  thing  which  is  the  product  of  design, 
there  are  present  form  and  color,  given  in  sensation, 
and  the  design,  the  plan  which  these  indicate,  given  in 
the  intellect.  It  is  this  intellection  which  becomes  the 
object  of  the  intuition. 

In  a cognition  of  beauty,  the  steps  are  three ; two 
presentative  and  one  perceptive : an  object  given  in 


THE  OBJECT  OF  INTUITIONS  AN  INTELLECTION.  97 


sensation ; an  action  of  the  mind  upon  this  object,  by 
which  it  is  understood,  by  which  the  idea  in  it  is 
reached;  the  action  of  the  reason  on  the  idea,  as  un- 
folded in  the  intellect,  and  found  in  the  object.  The 
first  and  third  of  these  -steps  are  intuitions,  the  second, 
reflection.  The  third  completes  the  others,  and  alone 
renders  the  quality  beauty.  The  brute  eye  may  per- 
form the  first,  a simple  power  of  thought,  the  second, 
and  only  a mind  gifted  with  the  high,  intuitive  organ, 
reason,  the  third.  It  is  not  strange  that  the  prelim- 
inary steps,  especially  the  second,  should  be  confounded 
with  the  third  ; that  the  reasoning  processes,  by  which 
objects  are  understood  in  their  relations,  should  be 
thought  to  furnish  a quality  of  which  they  are  the 
necessary  antecedents  ; that  the  presence  of  a new 
power,  by  which  we  reach  in  the  old  a fresh  and  unde- 
rived attribute,  should  be  overlooked. 

The  object  in  other  intuitions  of  the  reason  is  an  in- 
tellection, and,  in  this  respect,  beauty  is  entirely  analo- 
gous to  truth  and  right.  The  proposition  as  presented 
to  the  eye  is  not  seen  to  be  a truth.  It  is  only  when 
the  reasonings  which  pertain  to  it  are  perfected  that 
the  reason,  acting  on  it  as  now  presented,  pronounces  it 
a truth.  This  is  yet  plainer  in  the  perception  of  right. 
The  action  merely  is  given  through  the  eye ; nothing 
is  as  yet  declared  about  it.  It  may  be  the  product  of 
intelligence,  and  thus  right  or  wrong,  and  it  may  be  the 
result  of  idiocy  or  insanity,  and  thus  be  destitute  of  the 
higher  attribute.  The  fact  alone  is  before  the  mind, 
and  not  its  circumstances,  its  sources,  and  results.  On 
this  fact,  however,  the  mind  proceeds  to  act,  determines 
the  motive,  inquires  into  the  immediate  and  ultimate 
results  of  such  action,  and  the  degree  in  which  its  au- 

5 o 


98 


LECTURE  VII. 


thor  understood  these,  or  could  have  understood  them. 
The  action,  in  all  its  relations  being  laid  open,  the 
reason  then  discerns  in  it  as  so  presented  the  quality, 
right,  or  the  disregard  of  that  quality,  wrong. 

The  correctness  of  the  reference  of  beauty  to  an  in- 
tuitive faculty  will  be  more  and  more  seen  at  every  step. 
So  radical  is  it,  that  all  minor  truths  explain  it,  and  are 
explained  by  it. 

The  inquiry  now  arises,  whether  the  decisions  of 
taste  tend  to  a common  result  — whether  diversity  is 
accidental  and  agreement  permanent.  The  answer  to 
this  question  must  depend  on  the  intuitive  faculty,  on 
the  further  question  whether  this  admits  in  its  action 
variety  or  is  the  same  for  all.  The  reason  must  be  the 
final  referee  in  questions  of  beauty,  equally  in  nature 
as  in  art,  and  if  its  judgments  conform  to  no  law,  and 
establish  no  standard,  then  there  is  no  basis  of  agree- 
ment or  of  science  in  this  department.  The  individual 
may  have  his  own  principles ; but  as  between  individ- 
uals all  is  caprice.  Nature  and  art  in  their  variety 
may  be  judged,  but  as  sustaining  this  or  overthrowing 
that  judgment  nothing  can  be  said. 

That  the  intuitions  of  reason  agree  with  themselves, 
and  establish  a standard,  is  sustained  by  arguments  plain 
and  familiar,  and  requiring  but  a brief  presentation. 

It  is  probable  that  an  intuitive  organ,  whose  office  it 
is  to  impart,  to  perceive,  would,  in  the  same  things, 
perceive  and  impart  the  same  qualities. 

If  such  an  organ  is  a source  of  knowledge,  renders 
truth,  it  must  yield  that  which  is  objectively  present  in 
things,  and  this  must  be  the  same  to  every  recipient. 
Our  physical  senses,  it  may  be  said,  are  not  accurate, 
admit  of  considerable  variety,  and  render  a similar  dis- 


STANDARD  OF  TASTE. 


99 


crepancy  probable  at  other  points  where  it  is  less  easily 
detected.  Taste  affords  an  illustration  of  this  disagree- 
ment. To  this  it  may  be  answered,  that  this  variety  is 
not  such  as  to  interfere  with  the  office  of  this  sense, 
that  the  organic  impression  is  relatively  much  greater 
in  the  lower  than  in  the  higher  organs  of  sense,  that 
pleasure,  rather  than  knowledge,  is  there  aimed  at,  and 
that  it  is  consistent,  therefore,  both  with  the  nature  and 
office  of  the  organs  of  taste  and  smell,  that  these  should, 
more  than  other  organs,  modify  what  they  transmit. 
The  eye  and  the  ear,  on  the  other  hand,  — the  great 
gateways  of  knowledge,  — we  have  every  reason  to  be- 
lieve, if  we  cannot  always  prove  it,  give  the  same  infor- 
mation to  all.  The  reason  is  the  organ  of  our  highest 
intuitions,  is  utterly  destitute  of  any  organic  sensation 
or  satisfaction,  and  is  solely  dependent  for  the  enjoy- 
ment which  it  confers  on  the  knowledge  it  transmits, 
on  the  quality  whose  presence  it  affirms.  If,  then,  this 
quality  has  not  a substantial  existence,  witnessed  to  by 
this  faculty,  the  veracity  of  the  faculty  is  impeached, 
its  pleasure  is  an  hallucination,  and  we  have  in  our 
intellectual  apparatus  a power  which  avouches  a truth 
where  no  opportunity  for  such  a truth  exists,  and 
leaves  us,  not  only  satisfied,  but  delighted  with  the 
falsehood.  This  presents  a case  wholly  different  from 
any  variety  in  pleasurable  sensations.  That  an  organ 
whose  office  it  is  merely  to  receive  and  to  testify  to  its 
own  impressions  should  show  some  discrepancies,  is 
not  strange  ; but  that  an  organ  whose  office  it  is  to 
report  the  most  important  and  controlling  principles 
in  the  realms  of  things,  of  belief,  of  action,  which  has 
committed  to  it  beauty,  truth,' and  right,  should  involve 
the  mind  in  an  inextricable  labyrinth  of  falsehood,  or, 


100 


LECTURE  VII. 


rather,  through  the  want  of  any  standard,  destroy  all 
idea  of  truth,  is  wholly  inconceivable,  utterly  destruc- 
tive of  all  faith  in  our  faculties.  A scepticism  so  rad- 
ical destroys  itself.  Beauty  is  the  most  universal  law 
of  form,  the  most  potent  guide  of  method  found  in 
the  external  world.  It  includes  all  lower  utilities  and 
adaptations,  and  adds  for  the  reason  of  man  a most 
magnificent  utility  of  its  own.  Beauty  and  utility  are 
not  dissevered  or  conflicting,  but  concurrent  ends. 
Beauty  includes  the  perfection  of  uses,  and  only  in  such 
manifest  perfection  is  there  beauty.  If,  then,  this  prin- 
ciple, which  rules  the  external  into  a noble  complete- 
ness, which  is  everywhere  present,  securing  perfection 
and  symmetry  of  plan,  and  skill  of  execution,  is  vision- 
ary, well  may  we  afterward  expect  that  the  principle 
of  right,  giving  form  to  moral  action  and  truth,  shap- 
ing all  belief,  should,  being  witnessed  only  by  the  same 
faculty,  be  also  found  illusory. 

A second  proof  of  the  integrity  of  our  intuitions  is 
the  practical  faith  which  all  men  repose  in  the  decisions 
of  reason,  and  which  they  evince  by  reasoning  with 
their  fellows.  This  perpetual  resort . to  argument  im- 
plies, not  only  that  there  is  common  ground,  com- 
mon and  truthful  faculties  acting  upon  facts,  but  a 
reasonable  expectation  that,  with  explanation  and  in- 
creased insight,  corresponding  views  and  convictions 
may  be  reached.  Without  a unity,  a oneness  of  powers, 
all  such  methods  were  utterly  useless  and  absurd. 
How,  then,  do  we  always  deem  them  rational,  and 
often  find  them  successful  ? 

A third  consideration  is  the  agreement  actually  ex- 
isting among  men  on  questions  of  taste.  This  may 
seem  an  inversion  of  the  chief  argument  of  our  adver- 


AGREEMElS  i . 


101 


saries, — the  disagreement  among  men  concerning  the 
things  thought  beautiful.  Every  belief,  however,  must, 
in  the  last  appeal,  rest,  not  on  argument,  but  on  a skil- 
ful and  careful  interpretation  of  facts.  We  shall  shortly 
point  out  the  occasion  of  variety  in  men’s  intuitions, 
and  now  note  the  kind  of  agreement  in  their  judg- 
ments which,  amid  all  discrepancies,  indicates  a radical 
unity  of  taste. 

(a.)  An  agreement  which  becomes  more  complete 
as  men  better  understand  each  other  and  themselves, 
indicates  a oneness  of  controlling  principles.  A super- 
ficial agreement  is  most  striking  at  the  outset,  and  is 
rapidly  lost  as  investigation  proceeds.  The  reverse  is 
true  of  a deep,  interior  unity.  In  all  questions  of  taste, 
the  lines  of  opinion,  as  they  come  up  through  the  pro- 
gressive stages  of  civilization,  are  found  to  converge. 

(6.)  Akin  to  the  proof  of  unity,  derived  from  the 
greater  agreement  of  the  masses  as  they  pass  up  in 
intelligence,  is  the  fact  that  in  each  community,  while 
the  violence  of  controversy  is  found  with  artists  and 
connoisseurs,  here  also  is  found  the  greatest  number 
of  admitted  principles.  The  controversy  and  the  prin- 
ciples equally  prove  that  the  right,  though  disputed,  is 
felt  somewhere  to  exist. 

(c.)  A concurrence  in 'the  kind,  though  not  in  the 
degree,  of  awards  which  different  persons  assign  the 
same  work,  evinces  a unity  of  principles,  with  only  a 
transient  variety  in  their  application. 

(d.)  Disagreements  which  are  themselves  perpetually 
changing,  settling  into  no  law,  agreements  which,  once 
established,  are  becoming  principles,  more  and  more 
controlling,  unite  to  show  the  accidental  character  of 
the  former,  and  the  inherent  and  radical  nature  of  the 


102 


LECTURE  VII. 


latter.  As,  amid  all  discrepancies,  there  is  yet  in  the 
facts  these  essential  agreements,  they  obviously  demand 
for  their  explanation  a likeness  of  powers,  and  an  ever 
increasing  sameness  of  action. 

It  is  not  now  a difficult  task  to  assign  a reason  for 
the  transient  varieties  of  opinion  everywhere  so  obtru- 
sive. We  saw  the  second  step  by  which  an  intuition  is 
reached  to  be  the  transformation  of  a sensation  into  a 
conception,  an  idea ; in  other  words,  the  apprehension, 
on  the  part  of  the  intellect,  of  the  thought,  the  plan, 
contained  in  the  object.  Now,  as  the  external  and 
internal  relations  of  the  object  are  often  most  complex, 
and  this  thought,  therefore,  most  deep  and  inclusive,  it 
is  not  strange  that  the  mind  should  reach  it  with  diffi- 
culty and  imperfectly ; if  with  difficulty,  its  own  task- 
labor  and  the  slipping  grasp  of  the  understanding  will 
weaken  the  impression  of  the  object,  and  mar  its 
beauty.  Indeed,  what  is  secured  with  the  fatigue  and 
delay  of  intellectual  action  is  rarely  regarded  as  beau- 
tiful ; the  mind  demands  the  rapidity  and  fulness  of 
vision.  If  the  thought  performs  its  work  imperfectly, 
each  imperfection  will  limit  and  modify  the  reason’s 
estimate  of  what  it  has  obtained,  and  an  inevitable 
variety  spring  up  in  its  decisions.  This  very  variety 
marks  how  closely  the  reason  clings  to  the  truth  of  the 
fact  before  it,  limiting  its  own  judgments  by  the  limita- 
tion which  the  intellect  has  already  imposed  on  it.  It 
is  plain  that  the  idea  or  conception  which  is  furnished 
to  the  reason,  and  in  which  alone  it  sees  beauty,  will  be 
as  various  as  the  powers  and  culture  of  the  minds  whose 
product  it  is,  and  that  there  must  therefore  be  kindred 
discrepancies*  in  the  decisions  of  taste. 

It  is  not  affirmed  that  the  reason  sees  the  same  beauty 


DISSIMILAR  CONCEPTIONS 


103 


in  different  conceptions,  but  in  the  same  conception  as 
realized  in  an  object.  But  no  complex  object  replete 
with  thought  communicates  precisely  the  same  impres- 
sions to  understandings  so  various  in  their  native  and 
acquired  powers  as  those  of  men.  We  find  our  most 
apt  illustrations  in  the  kindred  questions  of  right. 

Right  inheres  in  action,  but  the  reason  cannot  safely 
pronounce  on  action  till  it  sees  it ; that  is,  till  it  knows 
it  in  its  motive,  its  present  relations  and  final  conse- 
quences. But  an  exhaustive  inquiry  of  this  sort  is 
often  most  laborious,  and  the  intellect  doing  its  work 
weakly,  wickedly,  or  indolently,  the  reason  is  left  to 
pronounce  on  a partial  or  perverted  statement  of  facts, 
and  hence  to  give  a verdict,  not  only  at  war  with  truth, 
but  with  other  verdicts  given  with  kindred  carelessness. 

Here  also  we  see  the  force  which  belongs  to  argu- 
ment. It  does  not  persuade  or  warp  an  intuition  ; this, 
the  premises  being  given,  is  as  fixed  as  fate.  It  strives 
to  modify  the  premises,  to  affect  the  intellectual  concep- 
tion on  which  the  reason  is  to  pronounce.  Either  for 
right  or  for  wrong,  it  leads  the  unbribed  taste  and 
conscience  to  its  own  position,  as  Balak,  the  incorrigible 
prophet,  to  Zophim,  that  it  may  have  its  enemies  cursed 
from  thence.  Not  more  numerous  on  the  retina  of  the 
eye  than  on  the  field  of  thought  are  the  possible  pre- 
sentations of  a given  landscape  ; the  very  variety,  there- 
fore, which  seemed  at  first  to  impeach  the  reason 
acquits  it.  This  judge  of  things  and  actions,  incor- 
ruptible in  itself,  has  yet  no  power  of  investigation. 
Wicked  witnesses  and  hired  advocates  may  so  render 
the  facts  as  to  make  of  no  avail  its  integrity,  and  the 
united  falsehoods  of  the  heart  and  the  head  find  tran- 
sient currency  under  its  seal. 


104 


LECTURE  VII. 


The  faculty,  reason,  is  incapable  of  any  direct  cul- 
ture. Like  the  eye,  it  seeks  at  once,  and  only  seeks 
exercise.  Taste,  however,  — for  it  is  better  to  include 
in  this  term  the  presentative  as  well  as  the  perceptive 
action  of  the  mind,  — may  be  trained,  and  that  chiefly 
through  the  second  of  the  steps  by  which  a judgment 
of  the  reason  is  reached. 

Of  these  three,  the  first  is  intuitive,  the  second  reflec- 
tive, and  the  third  again  intuitive ; the  first  sensational, 
the  second  intellectual,  the  third  rational ; each  part 
of  our  triple  nature  uniting  in  the  judgments  of  taste. 
Action  is  the  strengthening  agent  of  our  intuitive  fac- 
ulties ; our  reflective  powers,  on  the  other  hand,  are,  in 
addition  largely  dependent  for  their  present  efficiency 
on  past  work,  on  facts  disposed  of  and  principles  estab- 
lished. 

The  rapidity  and  correctness  with  which  the  mind 
arrives  at  judgments  on  new  matter  presented  to  it, 
depend  almost  wholly  on  the  use  which  it  has  hitherto 
made  of  its  reflective  powers,  gathering  up  and  explain- 
ing the  phenomena  about  it  in  appropriate  principles. 
So  far  as  it  understands  the  forces  and  laws  at  work 
in  a given  department,  and  has  familiarized  itself  with 
every  class  of  facts,  will  it  be  able  at  once  to  refer  each 
new  appearance  to  its  appropriate  place,  and  give  to  a 
reflective  process  the  quickness  and  ease  of  an  intui- 
tion. In  this  direction  is  it  that  the  mind  is  chiefly 
disciplined.  If  the  field  is  that  of  esthetics,  all  knowl- 
edge which  acquaints  the  mind  with  the  office  and 
habits  of  any  flower,  shrub,  tree,  insect,  bird,  or  beast, 
will  enable  it  the  more  perfectly  to  comprehend  its  form 
and  adaptations,  and  through  these  the  plan  which,  in 
its  perfect  execution,  renders  it  beautiful. 


DEPENDENCE  OF  BEAUTY  ON  KNOWLEDGE. 


105 


All  knowledge  which  acquaints  the  intellect  with  the 
force  of  the  several  symbols  of  expression,  and  enables 
it  readily  through  these  to  reach  the  formative  thought, 
which  defines  the  conditions  under  which  alone  the 
mind  receives  pleasure,  and  makes  familiar  the  prin- 
ciples which  rule  our  enjoyments,  will  prepare  the  way 
for  speedy  and  just  decisions  of  taste.  He  whose  past 
experience  is  classified  and  labelled,  does  not  start  anew 
in  each  judgment,  but  has  the  labor  of  past  years  at 
instant  command. 

In  morals,  he  who  has  long  and  cautiously  applied 
the  laws  of  action  to  the  questions  of  life,  will  be  able 
speedily  to  refer  each  new  case  to  its  appropriate  ex- 
planatory principle,  and,  with  an  intuitive  faculty  no 
more  just  and  certain  in  its  action  than  that  of  another, 
reach  his  conclusion  with  all  the  correctness  and  wis- 
dom which  have  characterized  his  past  elementary  judg- 
ments. Many  of  the  considerations  which  guide  in  ques- 
tions of  taste,  aild  which  are  ever  present  to  the  wise 
critic,  are  still  to  be  pointed  out,  but  enough  has  already 
been  done  to  show  that  the  reflective  processes,  which 
prepare  the  way  for  a speedy  and  safe  intuition,  are  so 
numerous  as  to  render  skill  the  result  of  much  training. 

Most  of  the  questions  of  life  are  so  complex  as  to 
require  many  antecedent  judgments  for  their  resolution. 
These  each  man  brings  with  him,  and  according  as  they 
contain  the  complicated  errors  or  the  corrected  wisdom 
of  a life,  will  be  the  immediate  result.  False  figures 
once  introduced  into  the  solution  of  a problem,  are  car- 
ried on  and  multiplied  through  the  whole  process. 
The  chief  method,  then,  by  which  we  reach  correct 
intuitions  is  a careful  formation  of  elementary  and  pre- 
liminary judgments. 

5* 


108 


LECTURE  VIL 


A second  method  of  culture  is  securing  integrity  and 
purity  in  our  own  spirits.  Health  is  requisite  to  the 
love  of  that  which  is  healthy  ; and  a lascivious,  lustful 
heart  will  seek  lascivious  and  lustful  art.  If  the  wis- 
dom and  grace  of  the  thought,  as  it  comes  out  in  a 
noble  product,  are  alone  to  elicit  our  admiration,  there 
must  be  an  intense  sympathy  in  the  spirit  with  that 
which  is  grace-giving  and  true,  and  a stern  rejection  of 
that  which  is  wayward  and  ready  to  slip  into  base  de- 
bauchery. The  great  bulk  of  error  in  morals,  we 
know,  is  traceable  back  of  the  intellect  to  the  inclina- 
tions, whose  servants  the  thoughts  are.  The  mind  has 
not  done  its  work  well,  because  it  has  not  been  left  free 
to  take  its  own  positions,  but  has  been  made  to  fortify 
each  outpost  of  vice  in  which  the  heart  chose  to  tarry. 
In  a less  degree,  yet  in  a very  sensible  and  unfortunate 
degree,  men  have  weakened  their  appreciation  of  true 
beauty,  and  especially  of  human  beauty,  through  a want 
of  sympathy  with  the  noble  and  true  impulses  which  in- 
spire it. 

The  world  is  full  of  God’s  conceptions,  and  he  who 
would  enjoy  them  must  at  least  have  sympathy  with 
God  as  a worker.  If  to  be  high  and  to  be  holy  are  the 
same  in  man,  or  at  least  the  completion  of  the  same  im- 
pulse, then  he  will  best  understand  the  high  who  rightly 
apprehends  the  holy.  We  here  and  everywhere  deny 
beauty  to  that  which  is  seen  to  degrade ; and  it  is  cer- 
tainly true  that  a spirit  firm  in  its  own  integrity,  and 
waiting  ever  for  the  Divine  word,  will  only  see  beauty 
in  that  in  which  it  sees  truth  and  worth.  Beauty, 
though  the  weaker  of  the  three,  is  never  totally  dis- 
joined from  truth  and  right,  never  keeps  company  with 
entire  falsehood  and  baseness. 


PURITY  AND  BEAUTY. 


107 


So  akin,  also,  is  reason  in  its  several  kinds  of  action, 
so  allied  are  tlie  reasoning  processes  by  which  we  pre- 
pare the  way  for  its  several  intuitions,  that  all  training 
in  the  search  after  right  will  aid  in  the  discipline  of 
taste.  This  connection  is  sufficiently  shown  by  the  con- 
stant reference  we  have  had  occasion  to  make,  for  pur- 
poses of  illustration,  to  the  department  of  morals.  In 
both  departments  there  are  subtile  laws  of  action,  each 
with  its  own  imperative,  the  one  weaker,  the  other 
stronger.  He  who  can  neglect  that  which  is  right  in 
action  will  readily  neglect  that  which  is  beautiful,  and 
he  who  can  despise  that  which  is  beautiful  in  action  will 
the  more  easily  despise  that  which  is  right. 

What  has  now  been  said  of  the  culture  of  taste, 
while  leaving  in  their  validity*  the  decisions  of  reason, 
yet  shows  the  impossibility  of  an  absolute  and  perfect 
standard  for  the  present  guidance  of  men.  Indeed,  no 
such  thing  is  desirable  if  so  applied  as  to  preclude  that 
progress  which  with  man  is  infinitely  more  than  imme- 
diate possession.  No  decision  of  taste,  however  correct, 
can  be  seen  to  be  correct  save  by  one  who  has  equally 
thoroughly  canvassed  the  conditions  on  which  it  rests. 
How  many  soever,  therefore,  there  may  be  of  right 
judgments  on  the  beauties  of  nature  and  art,  these 
judgments  do  not  stand  forth  with  any  peculiar  lustre 
as  guides  for  men  till  the  public  taste  has  itself  arrived 
at  that  point  in  which  it  can  appreciate  and  confirm 
them. 

No  individual  can  much  avail  himself  of  a standard 
higher  than  his  own.  Under  the  training  of  more 
powerful  minds,  he  bears  his  own  standard  on,  and  the 
height  of  his  achievement  is  marked  by  the  position  at 
which  he  at  length  halts.  The  possibility  of  entire  and 


108 


LECTURE  VII. 


universal  correctness,  and  hence  of  uniformity  in  the 
decisions  of  taste,  is  the  possibility  of  entire  fulness  and 
precision  in  our  reflective  processes,  and  perfect  integ- 
rity in  our  impulses.  Such  a state  is  a remote  ideal, 
approximated  by  slow  and  laborious,  yet  constant  pro- 
gress. The  ideal  is  ever  something  to  be  won,  and  not 
given,  to  be  possessed  in  trained  and  conscious  power, 
and  not  in  native  capabilities.  It  is  the  possible  wait- 
ing  to  be  made  real  in  effort,  the  latent  to  be  revealed 
in  action. 

It  remains,  in  connection  with  the  faculties  by  which 
beauty  is  arrived  at,  to  point  out  the  action  of  the  im-' 
agination,  and  the  distinction  between  this  and  fancy. 
Imagination  finds  its  most  constant  employment  in  re- 
producing that  to  the  e^  of  the  mind  which  has  been 
given  in  the  senses.  The  impressions  of  the  senses  are 
transient,  but  the  mind  does  not  lose  its  power  over  them ; 
when  they  have  passed  from  these,  its  external  organs, 
it  is  yet  able  to  recover  them  and  repeat  them  to  itself 
through  the  faculties  of  memory  and  imagination.  The 
memory  guides  the  imagining  power,  and  this  recon- 
structs on  the  mental  field  what  was  before  contained  in 
the  organ  of  sense.  This  takes  place  most  distinctly  in 
the  matter  given  in  vision,  and  it  is  sufficient  for  our 
present  purpose  to  confine  our  attention  to  this  sense, 
through  which  chiefly  the  symbols  of  beauty  enter. 

Not  only  does  the  imagination  render  to  us  copies 
of  scenes  remembered,  under  the  guidance  of  descrip- 
tion, it  constructs  more  or  less  accurate  representations 
of  things  reported  by  others,  and  in  vacant  hours  gives 
medleys,  scraps  of  many  things  before  present  to  it. 
Nor  is  this  all ; while  never  escaping  from  the  form  un- 
der which  the  senses  work,  it  often,  under  the  influence 


IMAGINATION. 


109 


of  desire,  renders  combinations  and  images  which,  as  a 
whole  or  in  appreciable  parts,  may  never  have  been 
seen  or  described.  The  air-castles  of  every  enthusias- 
tic dreamer  are  of  this  character. 

Desire  gives  the  law  and  subject-matter  of  the  pic- 
ture, and  imagination  paints  it.  There  is  a perpetual 
tendency  to  furnish  out  these  scenes  from  the  store- 
house of  memory,  and  yet  they  are  often  far  from  being 
mere  counterparts  of  remembered  objects.  The  imagi- 
nation is  thus  a facile  instrument  in  the  hands  of  de- 
sire, bringing  immediately  before  the  appetite  a full 
gratification,  and  perpetually  inflaming  it  with  its  tan- 
talizing proffers.  All  the  lures  of  effort  are  lodged  in 
the  imagination,  and  thus  it  becomes  a potent  means  of 
good  or  evil  in  the  mind’s  go*%rnment. 

This  same  power  not  only  works  under  the  impulse 
of  passion,  but  under  that  of  reason,  and  realizes  for 
the  mind  its  intuitions  of  beauty.  When  the  mind  has 
mastered  the  symbols  of  expression,  and  has  in  it  a 
feeling  to  be  uttered,  the  imagination,  under  the  guid- 
ance of  reason,  unites  the  two,  and  a distinctly  uttered 
sentiment,  a realized  beauty,  a creation,  lies  before  the 
mind.  The  impulse,  the  feeling,  is  furnished  by  the 
heart,  the  conception  which  beautifully  utters  it  by  the 
reason,  the  symbols  of  utterance  by  past  observation, 
and  the  realization  of  these  to  the  vision  of  the  mind 
by  the  imagination. 

The  reason  acting  on  that  given  in  the  senses  is  sim- 
ply intuitive  and  critical ; acting  with  the  imagination, 
is  creative  and  productive,  and  thus  supplements  nature 
with  art.  The  imagination  then  comes  in  to  aid  and 
realize  the  highest  mental  efforts,  and  the  mind,  no 
longer  merely  recipient  — cultured  and  watered  — be- 
gins to  blossom  and  bear  fruit. 


110 


LECTUKE  VII. 


There  is  another  action  of  the  imagination,  less  high 
and  valuable  than  this,  which  is  appropriately  termed 
fancy.  It  is  a pleasing  rather  than  expressive  use  of 
form  and  color,  — that  limited  play  which  is  given  to 
this  creative  faculty  in  schools  of  design. 

Members  pleasant  in  themselves  are  united  in  agree- 
able lines,  and  without  compassing  any  thought  the 
plan  returns  gracefully  into  itself.  There  is  not  dis- 
order, nor  yet  is  there  any  significant  order.  There  is 
not  a completion  and  correspondence  of  members,  nor 
is  each  absolutely  fragmentary  and  unconnected.  A 
half-aimless  and  half-idle,  yet  ever  graceful  and  power- 
ful, movement  of  mind  is  indicated,  with  here  and  there 
single  strokes  in  fine  perfection.  This  fantastic,  sport- 
ive movement  of  a mind  too  unoccupied  to  feel  deeply, 
and  too  full  to  do  anything  absolutely  meaningless,  is 
fancy. 

It  is  evident  that  the  lower  and  the  higher  action  of 
imagination,  art  and  fine  art,  cannot  be  cut  asunder 
by  a straight  and  well-defined  line.  Genius  at  work 
employs  imagination,  at  sport,  fancy.  Each  is  the  same 
reproductive  faculty,  under  a higher  and  sterner,  or 
lower  and  milder,  impulse. 


LECTURE  VIII. 


PRINCIPLES  WHICH  CONTROL  THE  PRESENCE  OF  BEAUTY.— 
• SUBORDINATION  OF  BEAUTY.— INCIDENTAL  CHARACTER. 

— CONGRUITY  AND  PROPRIETY. — NUDE  ART. 

Haying  spoken  both  of  beauty  as  a quality,  and  of 
the  faculty  by  which  it  is  apprehended,  we  purpose  now 
to  present  some  of  the  principles  which  control  its  mani- 
festation. 

The  first  may  be  concisely  termed,  the  subordination 
of  beauty.  By  this  is  meant  its  constant  submission, 
its  perpetual  subservience  to  the  end  proposed,  and  the 
material  employed  in  any  given  work.  Each  wise 
undertaking  has  an  object  furnished  by  the  higher  or 
lower  necessities  of  life,  and  beauty  comes  in,  not  to 
control  or  turn  aside,  but  to  shape  and  perfect  the 
means  by  which  this  is  reached.  She  does  not  work 
for  herself,  but  finds  her  gains  in  another’s  service. 
The  plant  does  not  live  for  beauty,  but  in  beauty.  Its 
leaves  and  petals  have  all  primary  reference  to  its  own 
necessities,  and  life  being  ultimate,  the  methods  and 
instruments  of  that  life  are  made  beautiful.  So  it  is 
in  architecture.  The  building  has  an  adequate  object, 
if  not,  it  were  folly  to  rear  it,  and  beauty  is  the  scope 
and  mastery  of  means.  The  subordination  of  beauty  is 
the  constant  reference  of  that  which  is  beautiful  to  an 
ulterior  end. 

This  principle  arises  from  the  very  nature  of  beauty 


112 


LECTURE  VIII. 


as  already  presented.  It  inheres  in  an  expression, — 
in  a thought ; now  this  expression,  this  thought,  must 
have  a reference,  a significance  of  its  own.  That 
which  is  shaped  under  thought,  is  shaped  toward  an 
end,  and  thus,  that  anything  may  be  beautiful,  it  must 
first  possess  a design,  a completion,  that  which  may 
make  it  an  object  of  the  intellect. 

Wholly  aside,  then,  from  its  beauty,  there  is  in  it  a 
law  and  order,  and  this  additional,  this  superinduced 
quality  is  only  present  through  a perfect  reference  of 
parts  to  a whole,  and  of  the  whole  to  an  intelligible 
end.  In  order  of  thought,  then,  if  not  of  time,  a con- 
ception containing  its  own  end,  and  a realization  of  this 
conception,  are  prior  to  beauty.  It  is  in  the  adequacy, 
fitness,  and  fulness  of  the  means  gathered  up  in  a sin- 
gle purpose,  that  the  reason  perceives  beauty.  The 
object,  in  the  completeness  of  its  relations,  must  be 
given,  before  there  is  any  opportunity  for  the  intu- 
ition of  beauty. 

Beauty  is  not,  therefore,  itself  a direct  end,  but  springs 
up  perpetually  in  the  path  of  benevolent  thought  as  it 
pursues  other  ends.  It  is  an  additional  reward  of  well- 
doing, — the  flower  and  the  fragrance  of  the  fruit-bear- 
ing tree.  Like  the  satisfaction  of  virtue,  it  is  not  the 
direct  object  of  the  act  from  which  it  springs,  but  its 
inevitable  and  most  pleasing  reward. 

The  world  having  been  made  for  man,  no  explanation 
of  the  presence  of  any  substance,  of  any  plant  or  ani- 
mal, is  felt  to  be  wholly  satisfactory  till  its  immediate 
or  mediate  ministration  to  some  one  of  the  wants  and 
pleasures  of  man  is  pointed  out.  Man  is  regarded  as 
the  ulterior  reference  of  all  things,  the  final  consumer 
of  all  products,  — - the  possessor  of  all  possessions,  the 


EVERYTHING  SUBSERVES  A PURPOSE. 


113 


focus  of  all  use,  the  head  and  summit  of  all  enjoy- 
ments. But  the  necessities  of  man  lie  in  three  direc- 
tions ; in  physical  use  or  utilities,  in  intellectual  use  or 
instruction,  in  spiritual  use  or  training.  All  below  him, 
therefore,  if  explicable  in  connection  with  him,  must, 
in  existence  and  action,  have  reference  at  least  to  one 
or  other  of  these  three  ends.  There  is  probably  nothing 
which,  if  perfectly  understood,  would  not  be  found  to 
include  them  all.  Our  knowledge  of  the  complicated 
dependences  of  vegetable  and  animal  life  constantly  in- 
creases. The  humblest  plants  first  creating,  and  then 
enriching,  the  soil  on  which  the  rankest  and  most  imme- 
diately valuable  grow,  — each  blade  and  leaf  the  grazing 
field  of  its  own  insects,  and  each  tribe  of  these  fattened 
for  the  maw  of  a neighbor,  life  balanced  against  life  in 
most  intricate  compensations,  — the  greedy  hunting  of 
one  class  weighed  with  the  fecundity  of  another,  and 
the  obvious  concentration  of  lower  plants  and  animals 
in  the  uses  of  the  higher,  — render  the  assertion  not 
extravagant,  not  even  improbable,  that  each  external 
object  may  have  utility,  a final  reference  to  the  physical 
well-being  of  man.  Certain  it  is,  that  a little  thought 
is  able  to  point  out  ends  of  instruction  or  of  training  in 
every  object  which  reaches  the  eye. 

All  that  our  present  purpose,  however,  requires  us  to 
affirm,  is  that  there  is  present  in  each  form  of  matter 
some  service  to  be  performed,  some  thought  to  be  com- 
municated, or  some  impulse  to  be  imparted,  and  that  in 
its  happy  obedience  to  a noble  use  alone  lies  its  beauty. 

This  secondary  and  contingent  existence  of  beauty 
does  not  mark  it  as  inferior  or  as  less  a contemplated 
object  in  the  Divine  plan.  Man’s  physical  nature  in 
many  directions  sets  limits-  to  his  spiritual  powers,  and 


114 


LECTURE  VIII. 


brings  forward  its  own  wants  as  primary,  but  does 
not  thereby  prove  that  the  intellect  was  lodged  in  the 
body  to  be  its  skilful  servant,  its  sagacious  purveyor. 
God  makes  instruction  throughout  the  world  apparently 
subordinate  to  utility.  Utilities  are  reached  through 
wise  means,  and  in  a wise  harmony  of  enjoyments,  and 
it  is  by  an  inquiry  into  the  interior  functions  and  uses 
of  things  that  we  receive  divine  instruction.  Our  les- 
son is  locked  up  in  objects  which  were  made  to  minister 
to  our  wants,  and  seems  no  broader  than  their  and  our 
necessities, — no  broader  than  utility  required  it  to  be. 
Divine  wisdom  is  put  to  the  service  of  making  a useful 
and  comfortable  world.  But  this  does  not  prove  that 
the  knowledge  imparted  in  such  a world  was  less  a 
consideration  in  the  Divine  mind  than  physical  gratifi- 
cation. The  pulp  of  the  peach  is  the  utility  of  the 
peach-tree,  and  in  securing  this  its  beauty  and  wisdom 
are  involved.  The  agility  and  strength  of  the  horse  are 
its  utility,  and  in  the  means  by  which  these  are  reached 
lie  the  wisdom  of  its  structure  ; but  neither  is  wisdom 
nor  beauty  therein  shown  to  be  a less  important  gift 
than  agreeable  fruit  and  rapid  travelling.  Of  the  three 
objects  of  our  rational  intuitions,  beauty,  truth,  and 
right,  the  last  only  is  ever,  by  its  own  nature,  an  ulti- 
mate aim  of  action.  We  may,  and  should,  pursue  the 
right  for  its  own  sake  ; not  thus  either  knowledge  or 
beauty.  Knowledge  is  power,  and  power  is  an  instru- 
ment and  not  an  end.  An  avarice  of  knowledge  has  in 
it  the  same  sort  of  fallacy  as  the  poorer  avarice  of  gold. 
Truths  are  the  beacons  which  light  up  the  path  of  suc- 
cess and  skill,  which  show  how  and  where  the  ends  of 
life  may  be  reached,  which  guide  the  eye  to  the  store- 
houses of  nature,  and  teach  us  to  arm  ourselves  for 


BEAUTY  INCIDENTAL. 


115 


high  and  bold  achievements.  Truth,  knowledge,  is  the 
road  to  good,  but  not  that  good  itself,  — is  potency, 
and  not  virtue,  capability,  and  not  possession.  It  may 
stoop  in  its  ministrations  to  a physical,  or  mount  to  a 
spiritual  good,  but  its  own  true  value  is  not  discovered 
till  it  is  harnessed  to  a service.  Beauty,  on  the  other 
hand,  is  neither  an  end  nor  a means,  but  springs  from 
the  perfection  of  the  means  which  concur  in  and  com- 
plete an  end.  This  intuition  rewards  skilful  art,  — all 
that  escapes  the  mechanical  and  compulsory,  and  shows 
itself,  in  the  impulse  which  gave  rise  to  it,  spontaneous, 
creative,  and  thoughtful.  It  is  the  seal  of  perfection 
which  gives  her  work  precedence. 

This  conception  of  beauty  implies  its  subordination. 
As  a seal,  there  must  be  that  to  which  it  may  be  affixed. 
As  arising  from  excellences,  yet  itself  no  one  nor  even 
the  aggregate  of  these  excellences,  there  must  be  an 
object  independently  excellent  as  the  source  of  this 
quality.  According,  then,  as  this  independent  perfec- 
tion is  everywhere  regarded  will  the  additional  attri- 
bute be  also  realized. 

In  the  thing  or  action  which  is  beautiful  there  may 
be  present,  as  a primary  object,  either  a material  or 
moral  end,  a utility  or  a good,  a want  met  or  a senti- 
ment uttered.  The  first  of  these  may  seem,  of  the  two, 
inferior,  and  the  beauty  which  is  dependent  on  a physi- 
cal use  to  be  disparaged  by  contrast  with  that  which 
springs  from  a presentation  purely  intellectual.  Our 
judgment  at  this  point  may  be  modified,  however,  if 
we  reflect  that  natural  beauty  is  everywhere  included 
within  material  and  physical  ends,  and  comes  in,  like 
the  grace  of  household  furniture,  to  give  to  commonest 
wants  a form  of  cheerful  elegance.  When  the  manifest 


116 


LECTURE  VIJI. 


aim  of  any  object  is  a utility,  the  principle  of  subordi- 
nation requires  that  that  aim  shall  everywhere  be  prom- 
inent and  pre-eminent ; that  form  is  to  be  adopted 
which  most  obviously  and  perfectly  subjects  itself  to, 
and  facilitates  the  use  required  of  it.  The  conditions, 
the  fixed  points,  are  given  by  the  end  in  view  ; and 
freedom  and  ease  of  transition  are  reached  with  these 
as  a framework  and  basis,  and  cannot  demand  the  ex- 
clusion or  partial  repression  of  any  one  of  them.  This 
is  the  problem  : Certain  ends  being  given,  how  shall 
these  be  most  successfully  reached  ? What  outline  of 
form,  which  is  not  a fleshless  skeleton,  but  a graceful 
contour,  will  completely  include  these  and  no  more  ? 

The  plan  which  excludes  a needed  member,  or  adds 
a worthless  one,  in  order  that  a notion  of  symmetry,  of 
beauty,  may  be  met,  therein  shows  its  weakness,  and 
that  it  is  destitute  of  that  power  which  can  successfully 
shape  all  means  to  its  own  purposes. 

It  would  also  follow  from  this  principle  that  orna- 
ment is  most  successful  when  it  is  not  solely  ornament, 
— when  it  both  discharges  a useful  part  in  the  plan, 
and  a beautiful  part  in  the  outstanding  form.  An  ar- 
chitecture in  which  the  boldness  of  outline  is  broken  by 
idle  members,  possessed  in  themselves  of  no  assignable 
purpose,  must  be  greatly  inferior  to  one  whose  very 
conception,  in  the  variety  of  its  offices  and  wants,  has 
a duty  and  a station  for  everything  which  it  employs. 
Ornament  which  lacks  use  lacks  justification,  and, 
though  agreeable  in  itself,  can  render  but  a stammer- 
ing reason  for  its  presence.  The  less  it  is  a constituent 
of  the  plan,  the  more  it  burdens  and  obscures  that  plan, 
and  substitutes  a medley  for  a method. 

While  no  principle  contains  a more  important  truth, 


OBEDIENCE. 


117 


it  cannot  in  art  be  so  far  pushed  as  to  be  made  per- 
fectly applicable  to  all  the  details  of  ornamentation. 
It  is  sufficient  if  it  has  been  strictly  regarded  in  the 
outline.  As  the  precise  pattern  of  the  parts  is  in  itself 
of  less  importance,  the  rule  somewhat  relaxes  its  hold, 
and  suffers  a less  obvious  connection  to  exist  between 
these  and  the  end  proposed.  The  embossing  of  a door 
may  be  of  one  or  of  another  design,  without  effecting 
the  object  for  which  it  is  made. 

This  principle  of  subordination  is  akin  to  what  Rus- 
kin  terms  obedience.  “ While  a measure  of  license  is 
necessary  to  exhibit  the  individual  energies  of  things, 
the  fairness  and  pleasantness  and  perfection  of  them  all 
consist  in  their  restraint.  Compare  a river  that  has 
burst  its  banks  with  one  that  is  bound  by  them,  and  the 
clouds  that  are  scattered  over  the  face  of  the  whole 
heaven  with  those  that  are  marshalled  into  ranks  and 
orders  by  its  winds.  That  restraint  utter  and  unrelax- 
ing can  never  be  comely  is  not  because  it  is  in  itself 
an  evil,  but  only  because  when  too  great  it  overpowers 
the  nature  of  the  thing  restrained,  and  so  counteracts 
the  other  laws  of  which  that  nature  itself  is  composed. 
And  the  balance  wherein  consists  the  fairness  of  crea- 
tion is  between  the  laws  of  life  and  being  in  the  things 
governed,  and  the  laws  of  general  sway  to  which  they 
are  subjected;  and  the  suspension  or  infringement  of 
either  kind  of  law,  or,  literally,  disorder,  is  equivalent 
to  and  synonymous  with  disease ; but  the  increase  of 
both  honor  and  beauty  is  habitually  on  the  side  of  re- 
straint, or  the  action  of  superior  law,  rather  than 
of  character,  or  the  action  of  inferior  law.  Exactly 
in  proportion  to  the  majesty  of  things  in  the  scale  of 
being  is  the  completeness  of  their  obedience  to  the  laws 


118 


LECTURE  Yin. 


that  are  set  over  them.  Gravitation  is  less  quickly,  less 
instantly  obeyed  by  a grain  of  dust,  than  it  is  by  the 
sun  and  moon,  and  the  ocean  falls  and  flows  under  in- 
fluences which  the  lake  and  river  do  not  recognize. 
So,  also,  in  estimating  the  dignity  of  an  action  or  occu- 
pation of  men,  there  is  perhaps  no  better  test  than  the 
question,  Are  its  laws  strict  ? ” 

It  is  finely  taught  in  this  passage,  that,  while  even  the 
freedom  of  beauty  is  obedience,  the  highest  beauty  lies 
in  obedience  to  the  highest  law.  The  ease  and  power 
which  we  wish  to  see  in  any  given  object  are  not  found 
in  the  waywardness,  the  obstinate  rigidity,  of  the  ma- 
terial, but  in  the  mastery  of  a formative  thought,  beforo 
which  everything,  while  retaining  the  integrity  of  its 
own  qualities,  is  flexible,  pliant,  and  apt. 

The  principle  of  subordination  is  not  less  controlling, 
when  the  end  proposed  is  moral,  — is  the  expression  of 
sentiment.  Beauty  is  then  dependent  on  the  character 
of  the  sentiment,  and  tlio  vigor  with  which  it  is  uttered. 
The  problem  becomes,  with  the  symbols  at  the  disposal 
of  the  artist,  to  impart  a certain  moral  state,  to  pene- 
trate the  work  with  given  emotions.  Provided  these 
emotions  are  not  themselves  base,  the  beauty  of  the 
product  will  depend  on  the  success  of  this  undertaking, 
and  subordination  will  now  be  that  of  the  means  to 
the  governing  feeling.  In  the  individual  expression  of 
this  end,  in  the  severity  with  which  all  that  is  alien  is 
excluded,  success  consists. 

If  no  such  law  exists  in  the  mind  of  the  worker,  all 
is  unruled,  unformed  in  the  work.  There  is  no  vig- 
orous wielding  of  agencies,  no  striking  concurrence  of 
things  diverse ; the  best  material  loses  its  power,  and 
the  purest  emotions  conceal  their  worth.  Ornament 


ORNAMENT.  — CONGRUITY. 


119 


becomes  ornate,  fantastic,  and  extravagant.  With  no 
principle  to  control  it,  it  knows  not  where  to  begin  or 
where  to  end,  it  becomes  obtrusive*  changeable  and  de- 
tached, and  art  passes  into  stage  effect,  — a fanciful 
shifting  of  trinketries.  The  decay  of  an  art  which  has 
arrived  at  any  unusual  excellence  is  wont  to  commence 
in  an  insubordination  of  ornament,  ending  in  total  con- 
fusion. The  naked,  the  bald  statement  of  a thought,  is 
ever  invigorating ; the  profuse  luxury  of  a wanton,  de- 
bilitating. ♦ 

It  is  the  subordination  of  beauty  which  constitutes 
the  difference  between  art  and  fashion,  rendering  the 
one  so  permanent,  and  the  other  so  fickle.  There  is  no 
law,  no  obedience  in  fashion,  and  as  it  depends  solely 
on  novelty,  it  must  be  ever  on  the  move  in  search  of  it. 
It  is  bound  to  incessant  change  by  the  very  lawlessness 
of  its  changes.  Obedience  is  allied  to  truth.  Obedient 
art  knows  the  limitations  and  laws  of  nature,  under 
which  it  works,  and  obeys  them. 

Under  this  principle  of  subordination,  we  can  best 
speak  of  congruity  and  propriety.  Congruity  is  the 
weaker  of  the  two  terms,  and  implies  an  agreement 
among  things.  Propriety,  on  the  other  hand,  is  more 
properly  employed  in  connection  with  persons,  and  ex- 
presses the  suitableness  of  things  and  actions  to  stations 
and  characters.  Every  strongly  defined  object  is  by 
this  very  fact  fitted  to  make  certain  impressions,  is  pos- 
sessed of  a certain  character.  From  the  relation  of 
such  an  object  to  surrounding  things,  there  immediately 
arises  the  impression  of  agreement  or  disagreement  in 
character,  of  congruity  or  incongruity. 

The  more  individual  and  decided  are  the  qualities  of 
any  object,  the  more  sensible  and  vigorous  is  the  law  of 


120 


LECTURE  VIIL 


congruity  which  it  imposes.  One  of  the  stronger  illus- 
trations of  this  principle  is  seen  in  what  are  termed 
styles  of  architecture.  In  the  same  style  there  is  a 
strong  agreement  of  members  and  methods,  — a marked 
concurrence  of  expression,  — and  this  imposes  on  the 
architect  a stern  command  not  to  depart  from  the  style 
once  adopted,  to  work  under  its  laws,  to  show  the  af- 
fluence of  its  resources,  the  vigor  of  its  devices,  and 
its  entire  applicability  to  every  part  of  the  structure. 
Upon  this  cheerful  acquiescence  in  the  laws  of  a style 
must  depend  the  degree  in  which  it  shall  be  developed, 
the  bold,  independent,  and  powerful  character  which  it 
shall  assume,  its  ultimate  worth  to  art. 

An  incongruity  among  things  nearly  related,  if  strik- 
ing, is  humorous,  bringing  them  into  contempt ; if 
slight,  it  simply  serves  to  weaken  the  impression  which 
they  would  otherwise  make. 

Propriety,  it  will  at  once  be  seen,  establishes  a firmer 
law,  and  one  more  inclusive  of  details  than  congruity. 
Man  has  more  character  than  irrational  objects,  his  ac- 
tions and  the  things  by  which  he  surrounds  himself 
stand  in  more  immediate  and  vital  connection  with 
him,  and  there  is  in  reference  to  them,  not  only  a suita- 
bleness, but  an  obligation.  A large  part  of  the  pleasure 
or  pain  whieh  we  receive  from  our  fellow-men  arises 
from  the  proprieties  or  improprieties  which  are  con- 
nected with  them,  and  the  law  of  propriety  is  more 
immediately  efficient  in  most  communities  than  the  law 
of  morals.  The  decisions  of  public  opinion,  pronoun- 
cing actions  appropriate  or  inappropriate,  are  more 
heeded  than  those  of  conscience,  pronouncing  them 
right  or  wrong. 

Propriety  in  one  sphere  of  its  duty  may  be  said  to  be 


PROPRIETY. 


121 


the  police  of  morals.  Public  opinion,  forced  onward 
by  the  advance  of  morality,  multiplies  its  restrictions, 
and  what  the  individual  conscience  has  long  announced 
in  vain  is  at  length  sent  forth  as  a command  by  this 
tardy  lawgiver  of  the  multitude.  The  virtue  of  the 
few  at  length  becomes  the  propriety  of  all.  What  is 
conceded  with  a strict  reference  to  right  is  virtue  ; what 
is  conceded  to  the  opinions  and  feelings  of  men  con- 
cerning the  right  is  propriety.  The  offences  which  this 
police  law  deals  with  are  more  numerous,  but  not 
always  less  heinous,  than  those  judged  by  the  higher 
criminal  law.  In  the  progress  of  virtue,  acts  relating 
to  moral  questions,  which  once  passed  without  censure, 
are  first  pronounced  inappropriate,  and  afterward  crim- 
inal. When  deep  convictions  of  the  wrongfulness  of 
any  course  of  action  belong  to  a few  only,  while  on  the 
part  of  the  majority  there  is  but  a lazy  and  partial 
acquiescence,  the  severest  censure  which  can  be  secured 
is  that  of  an  impropriety,  forcing  it  from  the  more  pub- 
lic places.  When,  however,  these  convictions  take  pos- 
session of  the  mass  of  men,  the  act  is  regarded  no 
longer  as  inappropriate  merely,  but  criminal,  and  is  put 
under  the  ban  of  the  statute. 

Propriety,  then,  in  reference  to  one  class  of  ques- 
tions, is  a sort  of  half-way  ground  betwee"n  virtue  and 
vice,  a street  decency  imposed  by  respectable  citizens, 
the  adumbration  of  right. 

Besides  these  more  important  questions  which  mark 
a transitional  state  of  virtue,  and  are  subject  to  pro- 
priety as  the  police  of  morals,  there  are  others  which 
are  committed  to  it  as  the  police  of  manners.  These 
are  points  which  are  deemed  too  trivial  to  involve  any 
moral  questions,  yet  not  so  trivial  as  to  be  matters 


122 


LECTURE  Vm. 


of  indifference.  Methods  of  speech  and  movement,  gar- 
ments and  premises,  are  of  this  class.  These  are 
thought  to  be  more  particularly  questions  of  taste,  while 
action  in  its  bearings  on  character  is  reserved  for 
morals.  A division  which  separates  the  manifestations 
of  character  into  serious  and  trifling,  and  assigns  the 
latter  to  aesthetics,  is  false  and  offensive. 

All  arts,  the  greater  and  the  less,  which  reveal  the 
heart,  are  subject  to  the  two  omnipresent  and  vital 
laws  of  rational  life,  — beauty  and  right.  Beauty  is  as 
broad  as  is  spontaneous  obedience  to  appropriate  law, 
whether  this  obedience,  as  rendered  in  the  form  of 
action,  be  termed  propriety,  or,  as  rendered  in  the 
inherent  character  of  action,  be  termed  virtue. 

The  lesser  improprieties  of  life  are  objects  of  humor- 
ous or  serious  contempt ; the  greater,  of  scorn  and  dis- 
gust. It  is  evident,  that  while  mere  propriety,  pre- 
senting so  loose  and  easy  a law,  cannot  go  far  to  secure 
beauty,  its  want  must  at  once  be  observable  and  highly 
disagreeable. 

There  is  one  direction  in  which  art  has  indulged 
itself  in  a most  marked  violation  of  propriety,  and 
that,  too,  on  the  side  of  vice.  I refer  to  the  frequent 
nudity  of  its  figures.  This  is  a point  upon  which 
artists  have  been  pretty  unanimous,  and  disposed  to 
treat  the  opinions  of  others  with  hauteur  and  disdain, 
as  arising  at  best  from  a virtue  more  itching  and  sen- 
sitive than  wise,  from  instincts  more  physical  than 
aesthetical.  This  practice  has  been  more  abused  in 
painting  than  in  sculpture,  both  as  less  needed  and 
hence  less  justifiable,  and  as  ever  tending  to  become 
more  loose  and  lustful  in  the  double  symbols  of  color 
and  form,  than  when  confined  to  the  pure,  stern  use 


NUDE  ART. 


123 


of  the  latter  in  stone  or  metal.  Despite  alleged  neces- 
sities,— despite  the  high-toned  claims  and  undisguised 
contempt  of  artists, — our  convictions  are  strongly  against 
the  practice,  as  alike  injurious  to  taste  and  morals. 
Indeed,  if  injurious  to  morals,  it  cannot  be  otherwise 
than  injurious  to  taste,  since  art  has  no  more  danger- 
ous enemy  than  a lascivious,  perverted  Nancy.  The 
grounds  of  our  opinion  we  shall  briefly  render. 

( a .)  This  practice  violates  the  law  of  propriety.  The 
assertion  does  not  beg  the  question,  for  propriety  is 
not  established  by  art,  — is  not  a law  which  it  gives 
itself,  but  rests  on  the  convictions  of  men,  and  passes 
into  a recognized  and  governing  principle  in  the  actions 
of  daily  life.  Propriety  is  an  external  law,  in  obe- 
dience to  which  beauty  is  realized,  and  not  the  notion 
of  this  or  that  artist,  or  of  all  artists. 

Propriety  comes  from  life  to  art,  there  to  control 
its  imitative  forms  and  representative  facts.  A rule 
of  propriety  is  an  induction  of  the  customs  of  life, 
brought  to  art  as  a principle  by  whose  acceptance 
alone  it  can  be  either  pure  or  true.  If  propriety 
were  arrived  at  by  seeing  what  has  been  found  in  art 
itself,  it  could  constitute  no  guide  to  art,  and  the  ques- 
tion of  the  propriety  or  impropriety  of  any  practice 
would  only  be  one  of  fact,  whether  it  has  or  has  not 
been  prevalent.  Our  assertion,  then,  is  true,  that  this 
practice  is  an  impropriety,  a violation  of  the  settled 
law  of  life  in  all  intelligent  and  Christian  commu- 
nities. If  justified  at  all,  it  must  be  justified  as  an 
impropriety,  as  a direct  violation  of  the  most  obvious 
law  of  decency  and  morals  in  social  life.  Has  art 
then  a right  to  establish  a standard  of  its  own,  and 
to  violate  in  favor  of  its  supposed  ends  any  principle 


124 


LECTURE  Yin. 


it  may  please  of  decency  and  morals  established  by 
the  healthy  sense  and  virtue  of  men  ? Such  an  as- 
sertion at  once  sunders  art  from  life,  and  makes  it 
the  most  formidable  antagonist  of  truth  and  right. 
Nor  is  it  sufficient  to  say  that  this  restraint  of  gar- 
ments is  the  requisition  of  a fastidious  custom,  and 
indicates  more  of  guilt  than  innocence. 

Doubtless  this  is  true  as  between  a pure  and  chaste, 
and  a sinful  and  licentious  race,  but  not  as  between  the 
different  races  of  men.  Human  virtue  is  a virtue  of 
garments  and  protections,  and  it  avails  not  to  say,  that 
to  the  pure  all  things  are  pure,  while  men  remain  im- 
pure. As  a matter  of  fact,  — and  this  is  a question  to 
be  decided  not  by  art  but  by  the  exigencies  of  life, — 
all  chastity  has  protected  itself,  lias  fortified  itself  with 
garments,  and  the  clothed  races  are  the  virtuous  races. 
Nor  is  the  difficulty  removed  by  the  often  repeated  and 
pretentious  affirmation,  that  art  in  herself  is  too  vestal 
and  high-souled  to  be  affected,  or  suffer  her  votaries  to 
be  affected,  by  ordinary  considerations.  We  meet  this 
with  a flat  denial.  The  mass  of  men  are  to  gaze  on 
great  art,  and  it  is  simply  contrary  to  facts  to  affirm 
that  in  them  ail  lower  feelings  are  overborne  by  the 
pleasure  of  taste.  The  question  is  not  alone  concern- 
ing the  purity  of  the  statue,  of  the  emotions  which  it 
was  designed  to  arouse,  but  also  of  the  emotions  which 
it  may  arouse.  If  to  the  pure  all  things  are  pure,  to 
the  impure  all  things  are  impure,  and  at  the  breach 
in  the  law  of  propriety  which  we  make  in  the  name  of 
virtue,  there  will  troop  in  the  lascivious  imagery  of  an 
uneasy,  omnipresent  passion.  It  is  a pretty  fiction  of 
poetry  to  speak  of  the  nudity  of  art  as  “ clothed  on  with 
chastity  ” ; but  we  may  well  remember  that  it  first 
applied  this  language  to  nude  life. 


NUDE  APT. 


125 


Nor  is  it  true,  that  art  itself  is  so  pure  as  to  have 
nothing  to  fear.  It  has  more  than  once  been  the  base 
panderer,  the  very  pimp  of  lust.  How  are  we  to  know 
that  art  is  pure,  unless  it  shows  itself  pure  in  its  pro- 
ducts ? 

In  this  world,  at  least,  the  best  proof  of  purity  is  not 
a prurient  desire  to  break  through  ordinary  restraints, 
and  walk  with  uncontrolled  license.  Such  art  may  be 
pure,  but  its  purity  needs  to  be  proved,  not  affirmed. 

(6.)  The  source  of  this  practice  is  against  it.  It  is 
Grecian,  pagan,  in  its  origin.  Because  the  art  of 
Greece  has  kindled  our  own,  it  does  not  thereby  follow 
that  a Christian  people  are  to  adopt  entire  the  art  of  an 
idolatrous  and  licentious  people.  If  Christian  sentiment 
and  feeling  can  find  adequate  expression  in  old,  and,  in 
many  of  the  conceptions  which  gave  rise  to  it,  corrupt 
art,  such  a fact  is  a most  powerful  and  destructive  argu- 
ment against  Christianity.  We  scorn  a Christian  art 
which  has  nothing  more  noble  to  say  than  a Greek 
mythology,  whose  worship  was  often  but  a Bacchana- 
lian revel.  It  should  also  be  remembered  that  Grecian 
customs  were  both  a reason  for,  and  a protection  against, 
this  practice,  while  ours  in  both  respects  are  the  re- 
verse. 

The  Grecians  were  accustomed  to  the  naked  athlete, 
and  had  a right,  which  our  artists  and  critics  have  not, 
to  know  the  nude  human  form.  Our  artists  reach  their 
knowledge  second-hand  or  surreptitiously,  and  then 
flaunt  it  against  decency.  Modesty  urges  the  inquiry, 
How  is  the  preliminary  knowledge  requisite  to  nude  art 
acquired  ? The  Greek  custom  had  pronounced  it  decent 
to  exhibit  the  naked  human  form,  and  their  art  at  least 
was  consistent,  and  violated  no  propriety  which  they 


126 


LECTURE  YIII. 


had  recognized  in  their  social  life.  The  forerunner 
of  nude  art  with  us  ought  to  be  nude  life.  Then  should 
we  both  know  the  truth,  and  be  armed  against  the 
temptation  of  our  art.  As  things  now  are,  the  more 
strict  is  our  daily  habit,  the  more  shocked  and  tempted 
we  are  by  the  startling  indecency  of  our  paintings  and 
statues.  We  establish  in  life  customs  which  keep  us 
sensitive,  and  then  indulge  an  art  which  plays  upon 
that  sensitiveness.  We  tamper  with  temptation,  and 
have  neither  the  innocence  of  nudity,  nor  the  guarded 
virtue  of  garments.  We  make  our  art  a lure,  and 
spread  it  as  a concealed  net.  Such  a method  must 
react  to  break  down  the  law  of  propriety  which  it  vio- 
lates, or  show  itself  in  individual  evil,  in  the  morbid 
passion  which  it  quickens. 

The  Grecian  induration  of  custom  is  better  than  a 
Christian  virtue  which  is  employed  only  to  keep  us 
alive  to  the  temptation  of  its  lascivious  imagination. 

(c.)  Facts  are  against  this  practice.  The  nudity  of 
Grecian  and  Italian  art  in  part  sprang  from,  and  in 
part  occasioned,  the  licentiousness  of  those  communi- 
ties. Nude  art,  the  world  over,  comes  forth  from  a 
libertine  atmosphere,  and  has  only  skulked  with  partial 
sufferance  in  pure  communities.  The  whelmed  cities 
of  Pompeii  and  Herculaneum  bear  startling  evidence 
of  lust  in  art,  conceived  and  finished.  It  is  also  true 
that  our  own  communities,  in  proportion  to  the  purity 
and  elevation  of  their  training,  are  startled  by  nude 
work,  and  gaze  upon  it  with  something  of  shame 
and  silent  guilt.  A circle  of  ladies  and  gentlemen 
voluble  and  free  in  such  a presence  betokens  either 
little  modesty  or  great  practice.  This  first  jar  and 
wound  of  a sensitive  nature  tell  the  whole  story  of  guilt 
and  of  evil. 


SUBJECTS  OF  NUDE  ART. 


127 


(<£)  The  subjects  chosen  for  such  art  condemn  it. 
They  are  more  frequently  a Venus,  an  Apollo,  a Greek 
slave,  some  scrap  of  mythology,  some  remote  historical 
or  wholly  ideal  character.  The  conception  of  the  artist 
must  wander  forth  from  present  Christian  and  historic 
life  to  pick  up  and  retouch  the  faded  figures  of  a faith 
most  justly  forsaken,  to  waste  its  powers  in  again  real- 
izing the  licentious  goddess  of  love,  or  god  of  war,  strug- 
gling, as  the  highest  office  of  our  Christian  inspiration,  to 
infuse  a slight  flush  into  these  thrice  dead  and  corrupt 
bodies,  or  to  reach  its  own  better  notions  in  some  form 
which,  after  all,  to  cover  its  nudeness,  it  must  baptize 
with  a classic  or  unreal  name.  It  cannot  introduce  its 
naked  savage  as  apostle  or  martyr,  as  general,  coun- 
cillor, or  poet,  but  hides  it  in  the  darkness  of  licentious 
fiction  or  barbarous  fact,  or  of  ideal  nothingness. 

Why  will  not  sacred  subjects,  historic  subjects  — the 
highest  themes  of  art  — suffer  this  treatment  ? Not 
less  because  it  is  against  decency,  than  against  truth. 
We  violate  truth  by  rendering  Washington  in  the 
flowing  robes  of  a Grecian,  but  no  artist  has  been  so 
bold  as  to  render  him  nude,  and  chiefly  because  of 
the  manifest  outrage  of  such  an  act  on  virtue.  We 
may  be  thought  to  misapprehend  the  office  of  nude 
art,  in  drawing  an  argument  against  it  from  the  fact, 
that  it  cannot  enter  the  historic  field.  It  may  be 
insisted  that  there  yet  remains  for  it  a place  in  the 
ideal  world.  So  far  as  ideal  art  works  out  its  con- 
ceptions under  a strictly  human  character  and  form, 
it  must  accept  the  same  laws  as  art  in  its  application 
to  life.  The  ideal  is  here  but  the  real  purified  and 
completed.  Eve  or  a Greek  slave  must  assuredly  show 
their  virtue  in  meeting  the  conditions  of  virtue  in 


128 


LECTURE  VIII 


human  life.  When,  however,  as  in  the  personification 
of  morning,  the  ideal  transcends  the  strictly  human, 
and,  on  angelic  wing,  is  poised  between  the  earthly 
and  heavenly,  the  law  of  propriety  is  of  course  modi- 
fied, yet  evidently  not  relaxed  on  the  side  of  lust.  Our 
ideal  virtue  should  be  not  less  virtuous  than  our  life. 
The  imagination  may  claim  liberty,  not  license. 

( e .)  This  practice  has,  we  do  not  say,  no  justifica- 
tion, but  no  apology,  in  the  necessities  of  art.  Art 
does  not  need  it,  nay,  is  injured  by  it.  From  what 
has  been  said,  we  see  that  all  its  best  themes  will  not 
suffer  it.  A Madonna,  and  not  a Yenus,  a Christ,  and 
not  a Hercules,  the  history  of  its  country,  and  not 
the  fables  of  the  dead,  should  be  its  ambition,  and 
these  precincts  of  virtue  nudity  dare  not  enter. 

The  face,  the  limbs,  the  frame,  the  attitude,  are 
the  grand  organs  of  expression,  the  only  organs  of 
spiritual  and  intellectual  expression.  Nor  are  these 
so  barren,  so  totally  exhausted,  that  the  curious  artist 
must  go  elsewhere  to  find  that  which  he  may  do, 
that  which  he  may  render. 

All  the  concealed  portions  of  the  body  are  strictly 
physical  in  their  adaptations  and  expression,  and  that 
taste  which  disciplines  itself  in  rendering  these  will 
only  be  the  more  liable  to  lose  the  higher  qualities 
of  manhood,  — to  destroy  the  balance  of  godlike  quali- 
ties on  the  side  of  the  body,  — to  put  muscle  for  will, 
softness  for  tenderness,  and  a full  animal  life  for  a 
vigorous,  spiritual  development.  The  argument  from 
facts,  both  at  this  point  and  others,  might  be  pushed 
much  further,  but  the  line  of  argument  has  been  suffi- 
ciently marked  out.  The  most  entire  and  unquestion- 
ing obedience  of  beauty  to  virtue  is  her  only  safety. 


LECTURE  IX. 


ECONOMY  OF  BEAUTY.  — REASONS  FOR  ECONOMY.  — DIGNITY 
OF  BEAUTY.  — CHOICE  OF  THEMES.  — TREATMENT  OF 
THEMES.  — SUMMATION. 

The  second  principle  which  we  present,  as  controlling 
the  manifestations  of  beauty,  is  its  economy.  Beauty, 
from  the  nature  of  the  case,  from  the  character  of  the 
objects  in  which  it  exists,  and  the  faculties  on  which  it 
operates,  is  subject  to  certain  limitations.  It  may  not  be 
in  full  variety  and  high  degree  everywhere,  but  is  amena- 
ble to  laws  of  distribution  and  restraint,  the  observance 
of  which  may  be  called  the  economy  of  beauty. 

The  first  of  these  restraints  arises  from  the  limited 
number  of  thoughts  which  can  be  received,  of  feelings 
which  can  be  entertained,  by  the  human  mind  in  a given 
period.  Finite  faculties,  as  those  of  man,  grasp  at  any 
one  instant  but  little,  and  this  little  must  be  retained 
beyond  the  instant,  that  it  may  either  be  fully  under- 
stood or  felt.  The  fact  that  each  emotion  distinctly 
realized  occupies  time,  and  is  slowly  excluded  by  other 
emotions,  gives  to  feeling  what  may  be  termed  its  natu- 
ral flow,  essentially  the  same  for  all,  though  somewhat 
accelerated  or  retarded  by  the  active  or  sluggish  tem- 
perament of  the  individual.  If  feelings  are  made  to 
succeed  each  other  more  rapidly  than  is  the  habit  of 
the  mind,  the  faculties  may  for  a short  time  be  quick- 
ened and  aroused,  but  they  soon  tire  of  objects  the 

6 * i 


130 


LECTUEE  IX. 


rapidity  of  whose  movement  wearies  and  bewilders 
them,  and  confusion,  uneasiness,  listlessness,  and  pain 
succeed.  The  mind  determines  itself  to  a certain  rate 
of  motion,  and  will  not,  for  any  length  of  time,  accept 
with  pleasure  a movement  either  more  or  less  rapid 
than  its  own.  Fatigue  and  loss  of  interest  are  equally 
referable,  either  to  more  or  less  than  can  be  readily 
apprehended.  The  heart  is  free,  and  can  neither  be 
spurred  or  reined  in  its  pleasures. 

This  principle  sets  limits  to  the  variety  and  fulness  of 
parts,  to  the  multiplicity  of  details  in  beautiful  objects. 
The  unity  must  not  only  be  complete,  but  also  level  to 
the  mind  which  is  to  enjoy  it,  including  no  more  than 
its  faculties  can  group  and  relate  with  that  ease  which 
constitutes  pleasure. 

The  more  disciplined  the  powers,  the  more  full  the 
variety  which  they  will  be  capable  of  enjoying  ; and  this 
growth  of  capacity  is  met  in  nature  in  two  ways. 

(a.)  Detached  portions  of  complex  objects  are  in 
themselves  beautiful,  and  may  occupy  the  mind  to  the 
exclusion  of  remaining  portions,  or,  as  its  grasp  is  en- 
larged, it  may  apprehend  objects  in  broader  and  yet 
broader  relations,  travelling  slowly  up  to  a universe. 

(5.)  In  the  same  object  — as  the  human  face  — vari- 
ety at  first  includes  only  its  leading  traits,  and  after- 
ward, by  study  and  increased  knowledge,  multiplies  and 
enlarges  itself  on  the  same  ground  ; even  as  the  animal 
world,  exhausted  by  the  natural  eye,  has  strata  below 
strata  of  life  awaiting  the  microscope.  This  principle 
is  of  constant  application  in  art,  demanding  that,  in 
the  members  of  a building,  the  portions  of  a garden, 
the  parts  of  a painting,  there  should  not  be  a luxuri- 
ance so  un pruned  as  to  overgrow  and  conceal  the  out- 
lines of  order,  — as  to  task  the  apprehension. 


BEAUTY  NOT  ALWAYS  DESIRED. 


131 


A second  application  of  this  principle  is  to  transitions. 
Feelings  do  not  follow  each  other  in  sharp  outline,  as 
black  and  white  in  trim  mosaic,  but  tardily  and  uncon- 
sciously, as  the  blended  colors  which  the  sun  melts  into 
a cloud,  or  the  vital  force,  into  a tinged  petal.  Akin  to 
this  should  be  the  steps  by  which  the  emotions  glido 
onward.  This  is  well  illustrated  by  the  effect  of  ar- 
chitecture on  gardening.  The  one  deals  more  with 
straight,  the  other  with  curved  lines ; and  the  freedom 
of  the  weaker  art  is  somewhat  lost  as  it  approaches  the 
dwelling,  the  representative  of  a stronger  art.  Every- 
thing begins  to  show  the  neighborhood  of  a sterner 
law ; the  paths  become  more  direct,  the  shrubbery  more 
closely  cut,  and  an  increasing  utility  is  everywhere  pres- 
ent. The  one  art  influences  the  other,  and  only  as  the 
mind  by  distance  begins  to  escape  the  trim  circumspec- 
tion of  architecture,  do  the  restrictions  laid  upon  nature 
relax,  and  she  once  more  shows  to  the  full  her  careless, 
native  ease.  Transitions  occupy  both  time  and  space. 
The  mind  refuses  to  vault  from  feeling  to  feeling  at  the 
will  of  the  artist. 

A second  principle  of  economy  arising  from  the  lim- 
ited capacity  of  the  mind  is,  that  a high  degree  of 
beauty  — indeed,  any  beauty  — is  not  always  desirable. 
There  are  feelings  which  adequately  occupy  the  mind 
without  giving  rise  to  this  emotion,  and  feelings  which 
give  rise  to  it  in  very  unequal  degrees,  according  to 
the  excellency  of  the  objects  which  excite  them.  The 
demands  of  utility  may  be  of  such  a nature  as  to  ren- 
der beauty  unnecessary  and  impossible  ; and  even  from 
so  favorite  a feeling  the  mind  is  willing  to  find  rest. 
Many  awkward  and  disagreeable  and  loathsome  objects, 
in  their  stern,  stubborn  truthfulness,  have  much  more 


132 


LECTURE  IX. 


power  to  nerve  and  discipline  the  mind,  than  any  mere 
varnish  and  gloss  of  an  affected  and  superficial  beauty. 
The  heart  is  not  to  be  enervated  with  a diet  of  per- 
petual pleasures. 

Another  fact,  furnishing  a third  principle  of  economy 
to  art,  is,  that  some  emotions,  as  similar,  readily  coexist 
and  blend  with  each  other,  and  that  others,  as  dissimilar 
and  opposite,  exclude  each  other.  Kindred  emotions 
may  be  multiplied  without  destroying  the  unity  of 
effect,  and  the  mind  passes  from  one  to  another  of 
these  with  direct  and  ready  transition.  On  the  other 
hand,  diverse  feelings,  tending  mutually  to  weaken  and 
destroy  each  other,  cannot  coexist  except  in  skilful  and 
limited  contrasts,  and  the  passage  from  one  to  another 
of  these  must  occupy  more  time  and  include  more 
steps.  The  first  give  rise  to  comparison,  capable  of  a 
most  broad  and  frequent  application  ; the  second,  when 
the  diversity  becomes  opposition,  to  antithesis, — of 
more  rare  and  difficult  use. 

A fourth  limitation-  to  the  impressions  which  the 
mind,  from  its  very  constitution,  is  capable  of  receiv- 
ing, arises  from  the  different  duration  and  degrees  of 
singleness  in  stronger  and  weaker  feelings.  The  deeper 
the  emotion,  the  less  the  time  which  it  tends  to  occupy, 
and  the  more  exclusive  is  it  of  all  other  feelings  while 
it  remains.  The  weaker  the  feeling,  on  the  other  hand, 
the  longer  the  time  it  may  occupy,  and  the  less  exclu- 
sive the  possession  which  it  takes  of  the  mind.  All 
higher  forms  of  beauty,  therefore,  more  especially  those 
which  are  sublime,  can  only  be  of  rare  occurrence, 
while  objects  of  more  subdued  expression  will  be  re- 
peated everywhere.  The  heart  has,  as  habitual  pleas- 
ures, the  more  moderate,  and  only  seeks  the  occasional 


HIGH  BEAUTY  RARE. 


133 


stimulus  of  stronger  enjoyments.  There  are  ordinary 
as*  well  as  extraordinary  states,  and  the  last  must  always 
be  few  as  compared  with  the  first.  The  fiction  which 
is  extraordinary  throughout  loses  not  less  its  hold  on 
truth  than  on  the  more  just  and  common  sympathies  *of 
the  soul.  There  is  little  beauty  unusual  and  striking, 
there  is  much  familiar  and  commonplace,  and  that  is 
the  most  healthy  action  of  the  mind  which  delights  in 
ordinary  objects,  and  finds  in  this  homely  fare  adequate 
nourishment. 

This  principle  also  makes  evident  the  more  severe 
unity  of  treatment  which  a strong  passion  requires,  and 
the  greater  variety  which  the  milder  feelings  court. 
Quantity  and  quality  are  in  inverse  ratio.  Fancy  re- 
peats her  figures  with  more  or  less  rapid  succession 
throughout  her  patterns,  and  atones  for  their  single 
insignificance  by  their  joint  effect.  A fine  statue  or 
noble  painting  will  not  suffer  repetition,  and  stands  in 
its  collected,  individual  worth,  more  worthy  than  if 
renewed  in  every  niche,  or  on  every  wall. 

For  this  reason,  also,  is  it  that,  when  a strong  effect 
has  once  been  produced,  all  further  details  or  ornament 
must  either  be  omitted  or  fall  into  the  background,  that 
the  object  may  stand  unobscured  in  the  singleness  of  its 
principal  power  ; and  that,  on  the  other  hand,  an  object, 
as  a landscape  or  building,  by  nature  somewhat  monoto- 
nous and  uniform,  demands  the  relief  of  ornament,  and 
makes  up  for  the  paucity  of  original  impression  by  an 
accumulation  of  details.  There  results  from  this  char- 
acteristic of  mind  a strict  economy  of  material. 

Two  strong  effects  cannot  coexist.  The  heart,  being 
filled  with  one  object,  rejects  the  second,  and  if  it  finds 
it  forced  upon  it,  is  pained  by  the  intrusion.  The  mind 


134 


LECTURE  IX. 


tends  to  temperance  in  its  enjoyments.  One  strong 
pleasure  satisfies  it,  nor  will  it  long  indulge  this,  but 
quickly  returns  to  the  frugality  of  weaker  feeling. 

Nor  is  this  moderation  and  restraint  of  power,  this 
chastity  of  the  soul  in  its  indulgences,  characteristic  of 
the  weaker,  but  of  the  stronger  and  more  self-contained 
spirit.  There  are  ever  in  vice  and  ignorance  a cer- 
tain prodigality  and  extravagance  of  enjoyment.  Tliej 
squander  all  that  they  have  at  every  entertainment; 
they  plunge  at  once  into  the  utmost  expenditure,  as  if 
this  were  all  too  little.  Their  feast  is  a debauch  ; their 
garments,  dyed  deep  in  most  positive  colors,  become 
fantastic  finery.  They  engulf  their  daily  pleasures  in 
the  extravagance  of  an  hour ; they  waste  their  sub- 
stance in  riotous  living.  Nor  does  this  arise  from  a 
quick  appetite,  an  acute  taste,  a ready  relish  of  enjoy- 
ment, but  from  faculties  so  rude  that  their  stupid  search 
of  pleasure  is  ever  breaking  out  into  revel  and  riot.  Of 
satisfaction,  of  the  repose  of  pleasure,  such  persons 
know  little  or  nothing. 

On  the  other  hand,  virtue  and  knowledge,  while 
affluent  in  resources,  are  ever  characterized  by  a certain 
moderation  in  their  use.  There  is  in  them  a restrained 
power,  a reserve  more  faithful  and  reliable  even  than 
the  troops  in  the  field,  — a happiness  which  flows 
quietly  on  with  its  deep  waters  and  its  shallow,  its 
long  reaches  of  level  and  its  occasional  rapids.  The 
divine  power  finds  everything  within  its  reach,  yet  there 
is  in  its  movements  nothing  eccentric,  extravagant,  and 
startling,  but  all  that  is  moderate,  measured,  patient, 
and  even  commonplace.  Nor  does  this  economy  of 
pleasure  which  belongs  to  virtue  and  knowledge  spring 
from  any  want  of  acuteness  in  feeling,  but  the  reverse 


DIGNITY  OF  BEAUTY. 


135 


Not  only  has  the  intelligent  mind,  as  occupied  with  real 
and  weighty  interests,  the  hourly  satisfaction  incidental 
to  its  pursuits,  but  it  discerns  in  familiar  objects,  which 
ignorance  overlooks,  so  much,  that  it  takes  more  pleas- 
ure in  tarrying  upon  them  than  in  being  hurried  on  in 
the  quest  of  novelty.  It  needs  no  stimulus,  it  waits  for 
no  excitement.  It  is  not  compelled,  like  some  poor 
rogue,  to  do  a violence,  to  waylay  its  pleasures  with 
sword  and  pistol.  It  is  rich,  it  has  enjoyments  on  every 
hand,  and  so  healthy  and  keen  an  appetite  as  to  make  a 
little  a feast.  The  world  unseen  does  more  for  it  than 
for  the  eyes  of  another,  and  there  is  ever  stealing  in,  it 
knows  not  how,  as  through  an  open  lattice-work,  the 
fragrance  of  distant  flowers,  the  warmth  and  odor  of 
distant  fields. 

An  economy  of  beauty,  then,  is  imposed  upon  us  by 
the  very  poverty  and  limitation  of  our  faculties,  and  is 
also  the  cheerfully  accepted  law  of  the  thoughtful  and 
fruitful  mind. 

A third  not  less  important  principle  is  the  dignity 
of  beauty.  By  dignity  is  here  meant  the  intrinsic 
worth  and  power  of  an  object,  — the  kind  and  degree 
of  feeling  which  it  is  capable  of  expressing.  There  is 
no  true  dignity  in  nature  aside  from  man,  for  in  him 
alone  is  concentrated  real  worth,  moral  worth ; yet,  as 
many  objects  reflect  for  him  intellectual  and  moral 
qualities,  these  have  a worth  greater  or  less  according 
to  the  nature  and  fulness  of  these  qualities,  and  a dig- 
nity which  is  the  reflection  of  the  dignity  of  their  Au- 
thor. By  the  dignity  of  beauty  as  a compendious  prin- 
ciple of  art,  is  meant  the  concurrence  of  intrinsic  worth 
with  merit  of  execution,  the  union  of  beauty  in  form 
with  beauty  in  fact,  the  perpetual  recollection  that 


136 


LECTURE  IX. 


this  high  quality  has  intimate  connection  with  interior 
qualities,  and  can  only  exist  in  a high  degree  as  resting 
on  a basis  of  substantial  merit.  The  dignity  of  beauty 
is  closely  connected  with  what  has  already  been  said 
of  beauty  in  expression.  We  there  saw  that  beauty 
springs  from  a creative,  a formative,  an  organic  thought, 
and  that  all  retreat,  decay,  and  disease  are  not  beauti- 
ful. That  which  has  in  it  no  advance  of  truth,  no 
intrinsic  worth,  not  less  in  the  spiritual  than  in  the 
physical  world,  has  no  dignity,  and  hence  no  basis  for 
beauty.  To  the  mind  that  apprehends  vice  as  the  re- 
treat of  virtuous  life,  — the  defeat  of  spiritual  strength, 
— there  is  in  it  that  which  puts  beauty  to  flight,  and 
so  far,  therefore,  as  an  object  presents  itself  as  un- 
worthy, it  loses  beauty,  and  there  is  no  opportunity  to 
humble  true  beauty  in  the  correct  presentation  of  vice. 
Indeed,  few  truths  need  so  severe,  or  are  capable  of  so 
impressive  and  instructive  treatment,  as  the  action  of 
moral  deformity  on  physical  beauty,  as  the  sack  and 
ravage  of  a spiritual  disease  upon  a goodly  nature.  It 
is  evident  that  just  here,  also,  there  is  the  possibility  of 
a most  deep  and  damning  lie,  in  the  telling  of  which 
beauty  shall  lose  all  its  dignity,  all  its  worth.  If  vice 
is  suffered  to  disguise  itself,  and  wear  a pure  and  regal 
beauty  unstained  by  its  own  nature,  the  great  fact  of 
vice  working  itself  out  in  deformity  is  kept  back. 
Beauty  as  much  becomes  a lusty  paramour  as  a pure 
vestal.  Wherever  the  desertion  of  right  is  not  pre- 
sented as  the  desertion  of  beauty,  art  is  degraded,  and 
disgraced  by  the  companionship  of  vice,  and  with  the 
vileness  of  her  own  ministrations  reflects  scorn  on  the 
beauty  which  she  courts. 

The  principle  of  dignity,  of  worth,  also  comes  in  as 


CHOICE  OF  SUBJECTS. 


137 


a guide  in  the  treatment  of  objects  possessed  of  different 
degrees  of  intrinsic  value.  It  does  not  suffer  the  artist 
to  bestow  equal  labor  and  affection  on  all  kinds  of 
work,  or  upon  all  parts  of  the  same  work,  but  compels 
him  to  a perfect  understanding  of  character,  that  just 
themes  may  be  chosen,  that  strong  points  may  be  made 
to  stand  out  in  their  relative  proportions,  that  a right 
respect  may  be  rendered  to  intrinsic  worth,  and  that 
beauty  may  receive  dignity  from  the  justness  of  its 
awards  and  the  merit  of  its  favorites.  This  principle 
governs  both  in  the  choice  and  treatment  of  themes. 
Only  certain  objects  are  capable  either  of  calling  out 
or  of  receiving  the  highest  enthusiasm,  — the  best  skill. 
At  this  point  worth  is  closely  allied  to  truth.  Those 
objects  which  contain  the  most  and  the  most  important 
truths,  which  have  themselves  been  the  largest  recipi- 
ents of  divine  thought,  have  for  man  the  greatest  worth, 
and  should  have  over  him  the  greatest  power.  The 
mere  correctness  of  a representation  is  not  a sufficient 
guaranty  of  its  merit.  There  remains  among  truths 
the  opportunity  of  choice,  and  the  general  character  of 
its  selections  will  decide  the  character  of  any  art. 

(&.)  Themes  are  determined  as  higher  and  lower  by 
the  purity  and  power  of  the  expression  which  they  sev- 
erally contain.  Man  and  human  history  may  at  once 
be  the  highest  and  lowest  objects  of  art,  according  as  de- 
veloped on  the  side  of  heroic  strength,  or  sensuous  indo- 
lence, — according  as  rendered  in  the  rareness  of  that 
which  is  possible,  or  in  the  deep  vulgarity  of  that  which 
is  too  often  actual.  Aside  from  anything  perverted  and 
false,  which  is  now,  excluded,  there  is  yet  in  man  the 
widest  range  of  topic,  corresponding  to  the  sweep  and 
grasp  of  his  nature,  and,  therefore,  that  which  is  both 


138 


LECTURE  IX. 


more  and  less  worthy  of  elaborate  skill.  Wasted  power 
is  here  very  closely  allied  to  perverted  power. 

Animate  nature,  with  a full  catalogue  of  secondary 
truths,  furnishes  a lower,  and  yet  a safer,  field  of  art 
Much  good  work,  and  even  great  work,  though  not  the 
greatest,  can  be  done  in  the  adequate  representation 
of  animal  life.  The  landscape  and  natural  scenery,  in 
the  unalloyed  purity,  delicacy,  and  power  of  the  emo- 
tions to  which  they  give  rise,  in  the  intense  and  broad 
sympathy  with  God’s  work  which  they  imply,  will  ever 
furnish  permanent  objects  for  the  most  thoughtful  and 
emotional  art.  Indeed,  an  intense  love  of  nature, 
though  it  seems  in  part  a desertion  of  the  higher  for  the 
lower,  of  the  moral  for  the  physical,  yet  largely  atones 
for  this,  in  the  strengthening  tone  and  purity  of  its  feel- 
ing, and  more  often  marks  the  growth  than  the  decay 
of  taste.  Among  various  objects  open  to  its  pen,  pencil, 
and  chisel,  the  dignity  of  art  will  show  itself  in  the  ful- 
ness of  the  theme,  in  its  refusing  to  tarry  on  that  which 
is  lower,  and  measuring  its  strength  with  that  which 
is  highest. 

( b .)  Some  truths  are  accidental,  others  general; 
some  individual,  others  specific  and  generic ; some 
grotesque  and  odd,  others  strangely  typical  and  char- 
acteristic. It  is  the  second  class  of  representative  facts 
which  has  importance,  which  is  strictly  true  to  nature, 
marking  her  laws  and  tendencies.  These  may  have 
less  of  mere  novelty,  but  they  have  much  more  of  real 
excellence ; less  of  that  extravagance  which  startles  and 
pleases  for  the  moment,  but  much  more  of  that  wis- 
dom and  law  which  mark  the  workings  of  true  power. 
It  is  these  only  which  have  the  worth,  the  dignity,  of  a 
system,  and  a method,  and  which  therefore  deserve  the 


METHOD  OF  TREATMENT, 


139 


elaborate  presentation  and  perfect  completion  belonging 
to  that  which  lies  in  the  very  line  of  order,  and  repre- 
sents the  workings  of  a living  force,  of  a power  per- 
petually creative  of  kindred  products.  It  is  not  the 
accidents,  but  the  purposes,  of  nature  which  have  inter- 
est. That  which  is  perfect  in  any  kind  of  life,  though 
most  rare,  is  not  therefore  akin  to  the  anomalous  and 
the  accidental,  but  is  rather  the  complete  realization 
of  law, — the  fullest  utterance  of  that  which  is. 

(c.)  Truth  attaches  an  additional  value,  an  addi- 
tional dignity,  to  historic  work,  — to  the  presentation 
of  Christian  facts,  beyond  that  which  belongs  to  vague 
mythological  conceptions,  — to  the  portraying  of  na- 
tional heroism,  beyond  that  of  ideal  virtue.  The  differ- 
ent arts  are  quite  distinct  from  each  other  in  the  length 
of  time  required  to  mellow  facts  into  appropriate  themes 
for  their  efforts.  Painting  may  lay  hold  of  recent  events, 
and  still  find  full  play  for  its  combining  and  creative 
imagination.  It  is  true  within  fixed  limits,  yet  these, 
far  from  unduly  constraining,  may  often  supply  a most 
wholesome  and  needed  law  to  its  efforts. 

Poetry,  on  the  other  hand,  thrown  back  more  on  the 
naked  narrative,  the  bare  fact,  is  thought  to  be  forced 
of  necessity  into  a region  of  fiction.  So  far,  undoubt- 
edly, it  loses  something  of  value,  — a loss  for  which  it 
can  only  find  compensation  by  making  its  fiction  most 
thoroughly  and  broadly  presentative  of  facts.  Indeed, 
the  success  of  much  modern  poetry  would  seem  to  show 
that  this  desertion  of  the  actual  is  not  necessary. 

The  principle  of  dignity  has  more  control  in  the 
treatment  than  in  the  choice  of  a theme. 

(a.)  All  that  is  odd  and  fantastic,  that  is  mere  con. 
ceit,  that  has  in  it  no  basis  of  fact,  is  thereby  excluded. 


140 


LECTURE  IX. 


A most  striking  illustration  of  this  maltreatment  is 
sometimes  furnished  in  gardening.  Trees  and  shrubs 
are  trained  and  clipped  into  mathematical  figures,  into 
cones  and  pyramids,  or  some  remote  resemblance  of 
animal  forms.  This  is  one  of  the  most  foolish  rebukes 
man  has  ever  given  to  nature,  and  deserves  to  be  fol- 
lowed by,  Get  behind  me,  Satan.  To  cut  and  shear  the 
character  of  a plant  all  away  from  it,  and  to  put  in 
place  of  its  native,  free,  and  varied  outline,  its  new  and 
individual  life,  some  scrap  of  mathematics  taken  from 
the  lower,  the  inorganic  and  mechanical  world,  shows  a 
mind  oddly  out  of  sorts  with  truth  and  God.  A trained 
hedge  is  only  justifiable  on  the  ground  of  utility,  and 
in  its  use  may  be  more  beautiful  than  if  left  wild.  An 
ornamental  shrub  or  tree,  on  the  other  hand,  is  planted 
for  its  native  power,  and  all  right  training  will  only 
develop  this.  To  make  it  forget  its  God-ordained  mes- 
sage, and  repeat  forever,  as  with  parrot  tongue,  our 
stupid  wits,  is  a species  of  profanity.  Another  example 
of  remote  and  valueless  resemblance  is  furnished  by 
worsted  work  and  kindred  products  of  female  indo- 
lence. These,  simply  because  they  have  deserted  the 
province  of  use,  do  not  become  beautiful.  Subject  to 
the  same  condemnation  are  the  word-tricks  of  poetry, 
by  which  quaint  expression  is  made  to  do  the  work  of 
true  feeling,  by  which  familiar  thoughts,  hidden  in  the 
folds  of  a new  guise,  elude  old  friends  like  revellers  at 
a masked  ball. 

(6.)  Dignity  excludes  the  use  of  unworthy  material 
in  the  arts.  The  durability  of  oil  paintings  gives  them 
a superior  dignity  as  compared  with  water-colors,  and 
the  difference  between  the  statue  in  marble  and  its 
model  in  plaster  lies  largely  here.  This  also  condemns 


RELATION  OF  DIFFERENT  PARTS. 


141 


wax-work,  and  reduces  the  best-executed  artificials  to 
trivial  ornaments. 

(c.)  Dignity  also  determines  what  part  of  the  work 
shall  receive  the  highest  execution.  The  noblest  figure 
in  the  painting  must  command  the  best  skill  of  the 
artist,  and  the  touch  of  the  pencil  must  nowhere  be  so 
•perfect  as  to  draw  away  the  attention.  The  rich  folds 
of  the  garment  are  not  to  stand  between  the  spectator 
and  him  who  wears  it,  unless  by  design  we  mark  the 
rank  and  station  as  more  than  the  man : the  flower  in 
the  foreground  is  not  to  be  more  attractive  than  the 
main  effect.  In  architecture,  nearness  in  position  and 
proximity  to  leading  entrances  impart  worth  to  members, 
and  therefore  demand  increased  delicacy.  Height  and 
distance,  on  the  other  hand,  suffer  the  workman  to  cut 
with  a more  bold  and  careless  chisel.  Allied  to  this 
dignity  of  members  is  the  nature  of  the  purpose  for 
which  any  edifice  is  erected,  and  which  at  once  deter- 
mines its  character  and  the-  degree  of  labor  and  orna- 
ment of  which  it  is  rightly  susceptible. 

On  the  constancy  with  which  every  modification  of 
purpose  results  in  a corresponding  modification  of 
structure  will  largely  depend  the  variety  and  worth 
of  a nation’s  architecture,  the  amount  of  character  and 
feeling  which  it  will  reveal.  Any  style  of  architecture 
will  show  its  power  by  its  pliancy,  its  ability  to  meet  the 
varied,  multiplied  demands  laid  upon  it.  A barn  must 
honestly  show  its  purpose,  and  cannot  receive  the  labor 
and  ornament  of  a dwelling  without  degrading  them. 
A dwelling,  the  home  of  a citizen,  has  no  right  to  the 
pretension  of  a palace.  It  is  strictly  private,  and  may 
not,  in  arrogant  assumption,  tower  above  its  neighbors. 
It  would  thus  become  the  expression  of  selfish  ease,  of 


142 


LECTURE  IX. 


ungenerous  and  offensive  self-assertion.  Fifth  Avenue 
may  mark  as  strongly  the  infamy  of  wealth  as  Five  Points 
the  infamy  of  poverty.  No  architecture  can  be  beau- 
tiful when  only  showing  the  wide,  hard,  unpitying  hand 
which  the  owner  stretches  abroad  to  gather  into  his  own 
cormorant-nest  the  goods  and  enjoyments  of  the  world, 
the  high  and  the  sharp  paling  with  which  he  fences  in 
his  own  from  another’s,  the  cold,  glazed  eye  with  which 
he  looks  out  on  the  suffering  and  want  which  are  exiled 
from  his  own  threshold. 

The  dignity  of  beauty  restrains  the  individual  in  his 
architectural  not  less  than  in  his  personal  outlays.  The 
dignity  of  a nation  renders  appropriate  a massive  mag- 
nificence, a mastery  of  material  and  time  that  leave 
durable  and  deeply  wrought  traits  of  character  on  all 
that  it  does. 

The  subordination  of  beauty  gives  us  its  relation  to 
other  things,  the  method  of  its  presence,  as  arising  from 
the  subservience  of  the  object  to  some  ulterior  end,  or 
from  the  relation  of  parts  within  the  object.  Economy 
of  beauty  gives  us  the  limitations  to  which  it  is  subject, 
— the  conditions  which  restrict  its  presence.  The  third 
principle  — the  dignity  of  beauty  — shows  us  where  it 
may  be  present,  what  objects  may,  under  the  form  of 
obedience  and  when  not  excluded  by  a just  moderation, 
.receive  it. 

The  three  principles  of  subordination,  economy,  and 
dignity  may  be  said  to  answer  the  three  questions, 
How  ? How  much  ? and  Where  ? and  thus  together,  if 
adequately  answered,  to  constitute  a complete  guide 
to  action.  There  is  one  further  question  of  guidance 
and  criticism  answered  in  previous  lectures,  and  that 
is,  What  ends  as  brought  out  in  any  object  — what 


CONNECTION  OF  PRINCIPLES. 


143 


kinds  of  expression  — are  beautiful.  This  point  being 
settled,  and  there  being  present  that  in  the  creative 
thought,  in  the  controlling  purpose,  which  renders 
the  work  capable  of  beauty,  it  remains  to  examine 
the  product  in  reference  to  the  perfect  control  which 
this  thought  has  everywhere  exerted,  the  restraint 
and  moderation  everywhere  shown  in  its  ornament, 
and  the  fitness  of  the  points  at  which  the  more  elabo- 
rate work  is  displayed.  That  these  principles  mutu- 
ally sustain  each  other,  and  therefore  in  some  degree 
involve  each  other,  will  readily  be  seen.  Nor  does 
this  prevent  their  furnishing  distinct  criterions  of  judg- 
ment. That  object  is  the  most  beautiful  in  whose 
execution  there  is  the  sternest  obedience,  the  most 
wholesome  restraint,  the  most  accurate  gradation  of 
worth. 


LECTURE  X. 


THINGS  WHICH  MISLEAD  TASTE#—  NOVELTY.  — AN  INFERIOR 
QUALITY.  — RESEMBLANCE.  — ASSOCIATION.  — HABIT.  - CUS- 
TOM. 

We  have  pointed  out  the  principles  which  guide  taste, 
and  now  wish  to  direct  attention  to  some  of  the  things 
which  mislead  it.  First  among  these  is  novelty.  The 
mind  is  so  constituted,  that  things  strange  and  un- 
usual in  form  or  action  immediately  attract  its  atten- 
tion, and  fill  it  with  the  feeling  of  wonder.  This 
feeling  is  of  itself  pleasurable,  besides  the  advantage 
which  belongs  to  it  of  being  so  quickly  able,  to  the 
exclusion  of  other  emotions,  to  take  possession  of  the 
mind.  Novelty  is  often  associated  with  beauty,  and 
we  may  confound  the  effect  of  one  quality  with  that 
of  the  other.  The  artist,  too  weak  to  reach  true 
beauty,  may  strive  to  supply  its  place  with  novelty,  — 
with  that  which  is  strange,  and  thus  striking.  This 
effort,  when  momentarily  successful,  must  always  fail 
of  reaching  any  permanent  result, — must  fall  greatly 
short  of  beauty. 

There  are  certain  things  which  mark  novelty  as  an 
inferior  quality,  for  which  no  valuable  quality  is  to 
be  sacrificed,  — as  capable  only  of  an  immediate  and 
vulgar  effect,  and  not  worth  the  slightest  sacrifice  of 
intrinsic  merit. 

(a.)  The  emotion  to  which  it  gives  rise  is  neces- 


NOVELTY.  — ITS  INFERIORITY. 


145 


sarily  transient.  Familiarity  robs  every  object  of  its 
novelty,  and,  if  it  lias  no  better  qualities,  leaves  it  in 
the  long-  catalogue  of  neglected  commonplaces.  An 
emotion  whose  very  realization  is  its  inevitable,  its  al- 
most immediate  destruction,  shows  itself  possessed  of 
only  a transient,  secondary  office. 

(6.)  Novelty  as  a quality  is  due  to  our  ignorance, 
and  not  to  our  knowledge.  It  is  strictly  negative.  It 
looks  to  nothing  belonging  to  the  object,  to  no  in- 
trinsic merit,  but  merely  to  our  want  of  previous  ac- 
quaintance with  it.  It  is  therefore  rather  an  acci- 
dental and  passing  relation  of  things  than  a quality. 
It  consists  equally  with  the  absence  of  merit  as  with 
its  presence,  a.nd  in  proportion  to  our  ignorance  will 
play  be  given  to  novelty  and  the  induced  feeling  of 
wonder. 

Springing,  therefore,  as  it  does,  from  so  unimportant 
a circumstance  as  our  want  of  previous  knowledge, 
novelty  indicates  nothing  permanent  in  itself,  or  of 
permanent  interest.  The  more  thoughtful  the  mind, 
the  more  it  moderates  and  restrains  its  wonder,  both 
as  a tacit  confession  of  ignorance,  and  also  of  a mind 
that  has  not  yet  rightly  apprehended  the  universal 
strangeness  of  things  even  the  most  familiar. 

(c.)  Novelty  possesses  little  value  for  the  philosoph- 
ical mind,  because  it  is  not  in  that  which  is  acci- 
dental, strange,  or  diverse  that  it  finds  its  most  im- 
portant lessons.  It  inquires  rather  into  agreements 
and  resemblances,  since  these  mark  the  presence  of 
principles,  and  are  the  paths  of  law. 

Discrepancies  and  disagreements  have  no  especial 
value  except  as  interpreted  by  agreements,  and  the 
mind  that  is  in  search  of  broad  truths  and  inclusive 


146 


LECTURE  X. 


statements  is  in  search  of  commonplaces  rather  than 
novelties.  The  radical  harmony  of  the  one  has  for  it 
more  interest  than  the  transient  variety  of  the  other. 

( d .)  Novelty  and  the  wonder  to  which  it  gives  rise 
are  also  disparaged  by  association  with  a vagrant,  pry- 
ing, and  sometimes  mischievous  curiosity,  which,  with 
greedy  appetite,  seeks  for  thq  news,  with  no  heed  of 
the  worthlessness  of  the  garbage  which  is  thrown  to 
it.  An  earnest  inquirer  after  truth,  seeking  what  is, 
and  not  what  is  new,  has  no  sympathy  or  partnership 
with  the  gossip  of  a newsman,  or  the  heed  that  waits 
with  ears  ajar  on  a novelty-vender.  Curiosity,  as  wake- 
fulness to  that  which  is  unknown,  indicates  a mind 
alive  to  knowledge,  — as  wakefulness  to  that  which  is 
new,  it  indicates  the  weariness  of  a heart,  that,  in  the 
dull  drudgery  of  its  insipid  pleasures,  has  worn  out, 
and  is  worn  out  by,  the  old. 

Novelty,  then,  is  both  legitimate  and  illegitimate,  — is 
present  in  the  highest  and  weakest  art.  The  creations 
of  genius  are  brought  out  with  surprising  freshness, 
and  yet  they  are  but  the  carrying  out  and  completion 
of  that  which  was  known,  — a magnificent  application 
of  familiar  laws,  — a new  development  of  the  power 
and  adaptations  of  method.  They  are  ingrafted,  by  the 
whole  strength  of  their  controlling  principle  and  inte- 
rior life,  upon  the  old,  and,  as  the  sap  of  the  former 
root  flows  up  into  them,  it  comes  within  the  reach  of  a 
new  vital  force,  which,  working  with  fresh  intensity, 
brings  forth  a strangely  superior  product. 

The  novelty,  on  the  other  hand,  which  marks  a decay 
of  power  is  extravagant,  taking  the  place  of  law,  not 
revealing  it,  removing  the  familiar,  not  illustrating  it, 
startling  the  mind,  not  instructing  it.  It  awakens  us 


NOVELTY.  — FASHION. 


147 


as  if  to  attention,  and  yet  has  nothing  worth  the  while 
to  say.  It  exists  in  perpetual  struggle  with  the  indo- 
lence, forgetfulness,  and  oversight  of  a mind  which  is 
not  moved  by  any  permanent  interest.  It  is  an  attempt 
to  advertise  that  which  is  not  worth  the  pains  of  the 
purchaser.  The  longer  this  is  done,  the  more  odd  and 
the  more  unsuccessful  will  be  the  devices  resorted  to. 

Dress  calls  for  the  action  of  taste,  but  has  chiefly 
fallen  under  the  dominion  of  fashion,  with  whose  edicts 
taste  has  little  to  do.  This  has  taken  place  under  the 
action  of  two  principles,  novelty  and  association.  The 
leaders  in  fashion  seek  for  the  distinction  and  attention 
to  which  novelty  gives  rise : those  who  follow  in  imita- 
tion find  their  tastes  and  desires  at  once  warped  and 
determined  by  the  association  of  ideas,  by  the  connec- 
tion of  the  new  fashions  with  those  whom  they  regard 
as  the  gentry,  whom  they  have  chosen  to  make  their 
elite.  The  one  party  — more  independent,  yet  more 
meanly  dependent  — win  attention  by  striking  out  from 
the  path  in  which  the  masses  have  begun  to  follow. 
The  other,  servilely  catching  the  new  tastes  and  notions, 
make  haste  to  conform  their  action,  and  share  the  hon- 
ors of  their  illustrious  leaders.  Since,  in  the  world  of 
fashion,  the  more  striking  the  novelty,  the  more  effect- 
ive is  the  movement,  extravagance  succeeds  extrava- 
gance, often  resting  its  success  on  its  very  violation  of 
taste.  Fashion  may  be  said  to  be  a systematized  pur- 
suit of  novelty,  and  wherever  it  prevails,  does  so  largely 
at  the  cost  of  comfort  and  taste. 

Fashion  may  also  be  said  to  be  the  impotence  of  taste, 
substituting  for  the  gratification  of  a higher  intuition 
the  meaner  pleasures  of  wonder  and  novelty.  As  a 
community  is  capable  of  the  better,  it  will  desert  the 


148 


LECTURE  X. 


inferior  impulse ; as  its  ignorance  debars  it  from  the 
higher,  will  it  fall  into  the  lower  pursuit. 

The  rule  of  fashion  is  not  to  be  recognized  so  far  as 
it  can  be  successfully  resisted  ; but  this  resistance  cannot 
proceed  to  all  degrees.  Fashion  establishes  a transient 
usage,  which,  through  familiarity,  is  made  more  or  less 
agreeable,  and  will  certainly  be  unobtrusive.  The  un- 
fashionable, on  the  other  hand,  being  in  a measure 
unusual,  is  somewhat  obtrusive,  and  exposes  itself  to 
comment.  Sheer  modesty,  therefore,  may  sometimes 
drive  one  into  the  protection  and  obscurity  of  fashion, 
or,  at  least,  limit  his  violation  of  it.  For  this  reason, 
much  is  resigned  to  fashion  which  could  otherwise  be 
better  ordered.  While  dress  and  furniture  are  the 
chief,  they  are  not  the  exclusive,  field  of  fashion.  It 
has  much  to  do  with  the  fine  arts,  — with  the  kind  of 
use  to  which  they  are  for  the  moment  put,  and  the  na- 
ture and  measure  of  the  admiration  which  they  tempo- 
rarily receive.  As  the  principles  of  taste  present  in  art 
become  stronger,  proportionately  authoritative,  and  ca- 
pable of  perfect  guidance,  so  fickle  and  false  an  arbiter 
should  be  carefully  excluded.  It  is  fashion  which  now 
plants  all  evergreens,  and  now  plucks  them  all  up  ; now 
fills  every  nook  with  statuettes,  and  now  neglects  them. 

A second  consideration,  which  often  embarrasses  and 
misleads  the  judgments  of  taste,  is  resemblance.  The 
mere  agreement  of  one  thing  with  another,  perfection 
of  representation,  is  not  beauty,  though  fitted  to  give 
the  mind  pleasure. 

A likeness,  according  to  the  original  character  of  an 
object,  may  or  may  not  be  beautiful ; but  if  a perfect 
likeness,  it  will  still  afford  some  satisfaction,  arising  from 
the  skill  exhibited  by  the  artist.  The  pleasure  spring- 


RESEMBLANCE. 


149 


ing  from  beauty  is  to  be  carefully  distinguished  from 
that  which  belongs  to  successful  imitation.  The  one 
depends  on  the  intrinsic  power  of  the  object,  whether 
a copy  from  nature  or  the  creation  of  the  mind ; the 
other  has  no  connection  with  the  object,  provided  only 
it  be  fitted  to  tax  the  skill.  An  anatomical  painting 
may  impart  as  much  of  the  pleasure  which  arises  from 
resemblance  as  the  finest  portrait.  The  one  depends 
on  the  intuitive  and  creative  power  of  the  artist,  by 
which  he  seizes  and  utters  expression ; the  other  on  the 
care  with  which  he  observes,  and  the  skill  with  which 
he  repeats  particulars. 

Beauty  and  resemblance  are  not  concurrent  in  their 
aims,  pleasures,  or  means.  The  first  is  never,  like  the 
second,  indifferent  to  the  object  on  which  it  employs  its 
art,  and  the  object  being  chosen,  it  strives  rather  to  re- 
peat and  renew  its  power  than  faithfully  to  transcribe 
it.  The  highest  resemblance  is  not  always  the  most 
complete  success,  even  when  the  object  represented  is 
beautiful.  The  treatment  which  deceives  the  senses 
does  not  employ  precisely  the  same  qualities  and  char- 
acteristics as  that  which  gives  the  expression,  and  ad- 
dresses the  reason.  Beauty  makes  a study  of  leading 
and  pregnant  truths ; resemblance,  of  marks  and  coin= 
cidences  which,  though  prominent  to  the  senses,  may 
be  intrinsically  of  slight  value. 

Many  of  the  less  significant  points  which  mark  the 
man  may  be  carefully  given,  and  make  the  portrait  a 
successful  likeness,  while  the  higher  qualities  which 
reveal  and  transfigure  the  manhood  may  be  feebly  ren- 
dered, and  leave  it  an  insignificant  painting. 

Resemblance,  at  best,  gives  only  what  physically  is, 
and  that  through  its  more  superficial  and  accidental 


150 


LECTURE  X. 


tokens.  Beauty  sets  the  latent  forces  of  the  soul  at 
work,  and  gives  the  face  as  the  subject,  instrument,  and 
index  of  a spiritual  life. 

While  art,  therefore,  as  creative  and  beautiful,  re- 
quires the  attention  to  be  directed  to  wholly  other 
considerations  than  those  by  which  a deception  is 
played  upon  the  senses,  and  has  a distinct  and  much 
higher  satisfaction  to  impart  than  that  of  resemblance, 
there  is  yet  a manual  skill  and  a certain  careful  observ- 
ance of  minor  truths  to  be  obtained  by  faithful  copying. 
Success  demands  equally  two  elements,  — creative,  in- 
ventive power,  and  truthful,  easy,  and  accurate  repre- 
sentation, — a mastery  of  thoughts  and  of  the  means 
of  expression.  This  knowledge  of  method  can  only  be 
reached  by  practice,  and  much  of  this  practice  will  be 
in  the  direction  of  faithful  copying  and  representation. 

The  power  of  securing  resemblance  is  greatly  inferior 
to  invention,  and  can  never  take  its  place.  This  differ- 
ence is  well  brought  out  in  the  fact  that  the  complete 
success  of  the  one  is  often,  as  in  fresco,  a deception,  a 
lie,  and  of  the  other  a noble  truth ; the  one  misleads 
and  confounds  the  senses,  the  other  instructs  the  heart. 

A third  fact  which,  in  its  effect  upon  the  taste, 
deserves  attention,  is  the  law  of  mental  phenomena 
which  we  term  association.  Many  things  are  deemed 
more  or  less  beautiful,  not  from  anything  present  in 
them,  but  from  the  associations  by  which  they  are  con- 
nected with  other  things  in  the  mind  judging  them. 
Nothing  is  long  left  wholly  to  its  own  intrinsic  merits. 
It  soon  comes  to  have  an  acquired  character,  de- 
rived from  the  circumstances  with  which  it  has  been 
connected, — a suggestion  of  times  and  places  and 
purposes,  — a reminiscence  of  things,  agreeable  or  dis- 


ASSOCIATION. 


151 


agreeable,  which  have  stood  in  relation  to  it.  This 
secondary  character,  these  derived  impressions,  are  dif- 
ferent for  different  individuals,  and  are  not  readily  sepa- 
rated in  the  mind’s  estimates  from  those  qualities  which 
make  the  object  the  same  for  all. 

Associations  of  this  sort  rule  the  judgments  of  many, 
— we  may  almost  say  of  the  mass,  — and  a thing  is 
deemed  beautiful,  not  from  what  they  have  found  in 
it  or  received  from  it,  but  from  the  position  which 
they  have  seen  it  occupy  in  the  world  of  wealth,  or 
of  art,  or  of  opinion.  Its  merit  is  to  them  derived 
from  its  associations,  and  the  moment  it  falls  from 
the  favor  of  the  high,  and  becomes  the  antique  fashion 
of  a poor  neighbor,  the  object  of  their  former  envy  is 
now  their  laughter.  They  are  alike  heartless  and 
brainless  in  both  feelings. 

Association  is  the  reproductive  power  of  the  mind. 
It  is  through  it  that  the  past  is  perpetually  renewing 
itself  in  the  thoughts  and  imagery  of  the  present.  As 
the  servant  of  memory,  it  restores  the  information 
committed  to  its  arrangement  and  charge ; as  the  ser- 
vant of  imagination,  it  brings  forward  the  forms  and 
truths  of  past  experience  to  be  wrought  in  the  con- 
stituents of  a new  work  ; obedient  to  desire,  it  recalls 
former  pleasures,  and  adds  to  the  joys  of  the  object 
and  the  hour  the  kindred  joys  of  other  years.  As  as- 
sociation draws  upon  the  past,  and  only  revivifies  the 
scenes  which  our  previous  history  has  given  it,  the 
character  and  worth  of  its  restored  pictures  must  de- 
pend on  their  original  value.  Virtue  has  this  additional 
reward,  that  the  present  is  bound  back  by  many  chains 
of  association  to  the  virtuous  and  just  pleasures  of 
the  past,  and  that  it  is  ever  summoning  to  its  society 


152 


LECTURE  X. 


these  cheerful  memories.  No  joy  walks  alone.  No 
note  of  music  is  left  to  die  away  alone.  The  pleas- 
ures of  the  soul  gather  in  groups,  and  troop  forth  in 
companies,  each,  by  the  very  law  of  its  presence,  at 
harmony  with  its  fellow. 

Yice  has  this  additional  condemnation,  — that  the 
present  is  dogged  and  hunted  down  by  the  evil  com- 
panionship of  the  past,  that  its  words  have  the  taint, 
and  its  suggestions  the  stain  of  a worn-out  debauch, 
that  it  cannot  shake  itself  loose  from  the  foul  memories 
which  hang  about  it,  nor  rebuke  the  malignant  and 
sneering  devils  now  evoked  even  by  the  purest  objects. 

This  aggregating,  accumulating  power  of  associa- 
tion, by  which  it  intensifies  every  effect  with  the  kin- 
dred experiences  of  the  soul,  shows  itself  at  once  in 
connection  with  beauty.  The  slightest  things  by  as- 
sociation are  endowed  with  the  strength  of  the  greatest. 
A flower  becomes  the  harbinger  of  spring,  and  a single 
leaf  or  bough,  as  it  deepens  to  scarlet,  the  token  of 
autumn.  The  cultivated  taste  each  hour  lengthens 
its  register  of  beauties,  and  each  hour  extends  and 
strengthens  the  network  of  associations  by  which  they 
are  bound  to  each  other  and  to  a common  service 
of  pleasure. 

In  a carefully  correct  criticism  of  individual  objects, 
the  mind  needs  to  be  guarded  against  the  warping 
power  of  previous  association.  This  necessity  may  be 
inferred  from  the  fact  that  all  beauty  has  been  referred 
to  association.  It  also  needs  in  the  culture  of  taste 
to  establish  those  just  associations  which  shall  enhance 
its  enjoyments  without  misleading  its  judgments.  An 
educated  and  virtuous  taste  has  much  to  hope  and 
little  to  fear  from  association,  since  this  power  only 


ASSOCIATION. 


153 


acts  in  the  direction,  and  quickens  the  effect,  of  our 
past  feelings  and  beliefs. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  associations  which  spring 
up  in  connection  with  a partial  or  neglected  training 
are  to  be  carefully  questioned,  and  oftentimes  over- 
borne, by  more  just  feelings  and  correct  judgments. 
Of  this*  sort  is  the  aversion  with  which  ignorance  or 
prejudice  regards  many  forms  of  animal  and  even 
human  life.  These  lead  to  a total  oversight  of  the 
admirable  adaptations  and  striking  beauty  in  them, 
and  often  give  rise  to  a stupid  cruelty,  equally  dis- 
graceful to  the  heart  and  the  intellect. 

The  person  who  diligently  studies  the  various  forms 
of  healthy  life,  while  confessing  the  relative  feebleness  of 
expression  in  some,  can  hardly  fail  to  acknowledge  the 
gracious  wisdom,  the  beauty,  appearing  in  all.  With 
this  enlarged  observation  of  benevolence,  there  will 
spring  up  increasing  and  more  inclusive  love,  and, 
through  an  appreciation  of  the  beauty  and  excellency 
of  the  workmanship,  the  soul  will  be  put  in  broader 
sympathy  with  the  universe  about  it. 

The  debasing  associations  of  ignorance  and  vice 
which  chain  down  the  spirit  need  to  be  broken  before 
it  can  arise  and  fully  receive  the  impressions  of  a 
world,  wise,  benevolent,  and  beautiful  in  all  its  native 
forms  and  methods. 

The  effects  of  association  are  sometimes  so  mingled 
with  intrinsic  qualities  as  not  readily  to  be  separable. 
It  is  often  remarked,  that  those  who  are  known  to  be 
good  are  thought  to  be  beautiful,  while  an  imperious 
and  unpleasant  character  gives  rise  to  an  impression  of 
ugliness.  This  is  brought  out  in  the  proverb,  “ Hand- 
some is  that  handsome  does.” 

7* 


154 


LECTURE  X. 


This  opinion  is  not  wholly  due  to  association.  Not 
only  may  we  suppose  that  the  expression  of  the  face 
and  the  character  of  the  indwelling  spirit  have  orig- 
inally some  relation  to  each  other,  but  the  former  is 
placed  under  the  immediate  control  of  the  latter,  and 
through  the  constant  exercise  of  this  influence  ulti- 
mately assumes,  in  all  its  permanent  and  legible  lines, 
the  feelings  and  passions  of  the  soul.  No  face  can 
long  resist  or  conceal  its  daily  avocations.  The  con- 
stant organ  of  characteristic,  individual  expression,  it 
is  in  repose  neither  silent  nor  untruthful.  Its  mes- 
sages, like  words  that  live  in  echo,  reach  the  soul 
when  the  tongue  is  silent.  The  features,  fading  down 
into  rest,  do  not  wholly  lose  the  passion  that  last 
played  upon  them.  In  the  soul’s  sleep  there  is  yet 
a twilight  on  the  face  that  tells  what  the  day  has 
been. 

As  the  countenance  is  in  perpetual  subjection  to 
the  soul,  the  feeling  and  opinion  which  we  gradually 
attach  to  a face  are  more  than  mere  association. 
They  are  interpretation,  — a more  correct  and  thor- 
ough apprehension  of  the  peculiar  signs  which  an  in- 
dividual spirit  employs.  Every  soul  does  not  signal  the 
world  in  precisely  the  same  method.  Its  muscular 
mechanism  is  not  ever  equally  perfect,  — its  trans- 
parency equally  pure,  — its  play  of  lip,  nostril,  and  eye 
equally  expressive.  The  way  in  which  it  manages  its 
own  instruments  is  in  part  to  be  learned.  And  not 
till  the  countenance,  as  subject  to  the  various  phases 
of  thought,  has  been  made  familiar,  can  we  altogether 
judge  its  power.  This  acquired,  secondary  character, 
by  which  the  face  of  a friend  is  to  us  more  than  that 
of  a stranger,  may  arise  as  much  from  our  increased 


HABIT. 


155 


insight  into  the  signs  of  character,  from  onr  enhanced 
power  of  interpretation,  as  from  affection. 

That  association  greatly  aids  in  securing  this  result 
none  can  doubt;  and  the  redemptive  power  of  virtue, 
by  which  it  conceals  defects,  quickens  beauty,  and 
makes  the  mind  partial  to  its  instruments,  marks  well 
its  superior  and  pervading  excellence. 

The  only  consideration  of  which  it  remains  to  speak, 
as  misleading  the  mind  in  its  sesthetical  judgments, 
or  as  liable  to  establish  impressions  adverse  to  good 
taste,  is  habit.  This  is  distinct  from  fashion  in  the 
principle  which  gives  rise  to  it,  and  in  the  manner  of 
its  action.  The  one  springs  from  a love  of  the  new 
and  strange ; the  other,  from  a love  of  the  old  and 
familiar:  change  is  with  one  the  necessity  of  its  ex- 
istence, and  stability  with  the  other.  Fashion  is  the 
result  of  the  restless,  uneasy  temperament  of  the  mind, 
by  which  it  chafes  with  the  fixed  and  orderly ; habit, 
of  its  tendencies  to  settled  attachments  and  fixed  re- 
lations, as  wearying  of  the  perpetual  ebb  and  flow 
of  events.  Youth  in  its  volatility  is  most  open  to 
the  influence  of  fashion ; old  age,  averse  to  change, 
is  the  dependant  and  often  the  slave  of  matured  habits. 
A fashion  is  strongest  in  its  influence  the  moment 
it  is  realized,  and  thence  rapidly  declines ; a habit  is 
in  its  incipiency  weak,  and  is  from  that  point  slowly 
but  steadily  confirmed  in  strength.  Fashion  is  the 
jostle  and  confusion  of  the  world,  habit  its  retire- 
ment and  tranquillity.  The  one  is  the  radicalism,  and 
the  other  the  conservatism,  of  manners.  The  second 
demands  more  respect,  and  exerts  a more  even  and 
permanent  power  than  the  first.  Custom,  which  is 
the  habit  of  a community,  fortifies  itself  with  antiquity, 


156 


LECTURE  X. 


arms  itself  with  the  potent  power  of  possession,  and, 
inclosed  within  the  double  associations  of  the  past  and 
present,  is  firmly  entrenched  against  change. 

As  far  as  art  is  representative  it  cannot  be  truthful 
without  thoroughly  understanding  and  recognizing  the 
effect  of  habit,  without  adequately  rendering  this  ten- 
dency of  character  to  confine  and  conform  itself  to 
settled  modes  of  action.  So  far  as  art  is  presentative, 
creative  of  that  which  is  better  and  more  beautiful, 
it  has  evidently  occasion  to  test  the  claims  of  each 
habit,  and,  if  it  has  no  adequate  support,  to  reject  it 
and  put  over  against  it  that  which  is  able  to  justify 
itself  to  the  taste  and  judgment.  In  things  relatively 
indifferent,  habit  may  furnish  a convenient  law ; but 
to  allow  it  to  overawe  or  put  down  our  better  con- 
victions is  to  give  way  to  the  chronic  growl  of  a tooth- 
less conservatism,  made  only  the  more  querulous  by 
concession.  As  an  illustration  of  the  evil  influence 
of  custom,  we  may  instance  the  stereotyped  and  mean- 
ingless form  of  much  domestic  architecture,  the  size 
and  arrangement  of  yards,  and  the  color  of  dwellings. 
A heavy,  monotonously  regular  front,  a small,  rectan- 
gular enclosure,  and  glaring  white,  are  what  custom 
claims,  and  most  are  contented  to  secure. 

The  difference  between  habit  and  fashion  is  seen  in 
the  character  of  the  things  which  they  respectively  most 
affect.  Dress  is  the  chosen  field  of  the  one,  while 
buildings  and  the  more  permanent  accompaniments  of 
life  are  most  influenced  by  the  other.  The  term  habit 
employed  to  designate  one’s  garments,  as  a riding-habit, 
would  seem  to  look  back  to  a period  less  fickle  in  its 
fancies  than  our  own. 

It  is  evident  that  custom  cannot  be  so  violently  and 


CUSTOM. 


157 


strenuously  resisted  in  aesthetics  as  in  morals,  since  the 
one  is  ultimately  a question  of  pleasure,  and  the  other 
of  duty.  It  may  here  sometimes  be  better  to  repress  a 
principle  than  to  provoke  a prejudice,  since  it  is  not  an 
abstract  but  a pleasurable  expression  of  truth  that  is 
aimed  at.  Custom,  when  it  has  established  a law  for 
the  protection  of  decency  and  morals,  can  most  impera- 
tively claim  that  it  should  be  respected  by  art,  that  she 
should  not,  with  her  supposed  exigencies,  overrule  the 
stern  regulations  on  which  rest  the  safe  government  of 
life. 

If  we  distinguish  custom  and  habit  from  each  other, 
— as  the  one  the  usage,  the  law  which  the  habits  of  the 
many  have  assigned  the  community,  and  the  other,  the 
method,  the  ever-returning  mode  which  the  action  of 
the  individual  assumes,  — it  is  evident  that  the  first, 
through  the  stability,  order,  and  protection  which  it 
gives  to  society,  is  closely  allied  to  civil  law,  and  will 
usually  demand  a much  more  cautious  and  circumspect 
treatment  than  the  second.  A custom  may  not  so  read- 
ily be  violated  or  set  aside  as  a habit.  Both  custom 
and  habit  exert  a subtile  influence  over  our  judgments, 
concealing  from  us  the  defects  of  those  things  which 
they  have  sanctioned.  They  preoccupy  the  ground 
with  strong  feelings  of  their  own.  Many  of  the  prefer- 
ences to  which  they  give  rise  are  strictly  prejudices,  — 
prejudgments  in  favor  of  that  which  familiarity  has 
rendered  agreeable. 

Habit  weakens  both  pain  and  pleasure.  That  which 
is  habitual  addresses  the  feelings  less  strongly  than  that 
which  is  new,  and  our  familiarity  with  objects,  both 
repulsive  and  pleasant,  has  usually  the  effect  to  weaken 
the  impression  they  make  upon  the  feelings,  and  hence 


158 


LECTURE  X. 


in  part  incapacitates  the  mind  to  judge  them  correctly. 
Habit  begets  a certain  dulness  of  the  faculties,  by  which 
they  come  more  readily  to  endure  protracted  evil,  and 
to  experience  less  enjoyment  from  protracted  pleasure, 
thus  on  either  hand  equalizing  feeling,  and  softening , 
down  its  intensities.  Though  habit,  through  this  form 
of  its  action,  ameliorates  a condition  of  misery  and  pov- 
erty, and  disappoints -a  spirit  of  selfish  accumulation  of 
its  coveted  pleasures,  it  is  evident  that  it  also  weakens 
the  hold  of  the  feelings  and  judgment  on  the  real 
character  of  things,  and  perverts  our  aesthetical  and 
moral  perceptions.  Since  habit,  when  once  confirmed, 
confers  no  pleasure,  but  rather  the  reverse,  it  might  be 
thought  to  be  without  adequate  means  of  supporting  its 
authority.  Its  rule  is  one  of  force,  rather  than  of  per- 
suasion ; of  tyranny  and  the  scourge,  rather  than  of  free- 
dom and  reward.  Habit  when  violated  has  great  power 
of  inflicting  discomfort,  and  the  more  unreasoriable  and 
pernicious  the  habit  has  been,  the  more  severe  and  pro- 
tracted is  the  penalty  of  pain  with  which  its  violation  is 
usually  visited.  In  this  respect  it  is  like  the  momentum 
of  a body,  which  does  not  much  show  itself  till  an  effort 
is  made  to  check  the  motion ; then  it  becomes  deadly, 
and  sends  the  ball  crashing  and  bruising  through  all 
obstacles.  Habit  is  often  but  the  momentum  of  the 
body,  or  the  heart,  or  the  mind,  impelled  by  which  it 
runs  along  in  a rut  of  indulgence  or  indolence,  and 
cannot  be  lifted  out. 

Even  where  habit  is  on  the  side  of  virtue,  in  the  very 
support  which  it  renders  the  right,  it  is  liable  to  make 
the  soul’s  action  more  and  more  mechanical,  — to  leave 
it  satisfied  with  a stolid  repetition  of  the  past,  rather 
than  to  incite  it  to  higher  realizations,  to  bold  and  deter- 
mined progress. 


HABIT. 


159 


Habit,  therefore,  as  tending  to  restrain  the  free  judg- 
ments, and  prejudice  the  taste,  to  mislead  and  weaken 
the  feelings,  and  commit  our  active  powers  to  the  blind 
lead  of  worn-out  precedents,  needs  to  be  most  assidu- 
ously watched  over  and  guarded  against.  Its  dominion 
is  everywhere,  and  all  the  chronic  evils  of  life  and  art 
will  be  found  sheltered  and  intrenched  in  habit  and 
custom.  Taste,  like  judgment,  while  reverencing  and 
loving  the  past,  must  sometimes  forget  it,  that  it  may 
meet  with  unbiassed  heart  the  new  conditions  of  the 
present.  Yet  habit  rightly  formed  is  the  ease  of  con- 
firmed virtue,  the  grace  of  good  breeding,  the  adroitness 
of  disciplined  powers,  the  assurance  of  consolidated 
strength.  Most  to  be  feared  and  most  to  be  sought,  — 
the  inflexible  mould  in  which  our  life  is  ever  cooling, 
the  unchangeable  pattern  into  which  it  is  ever  setting, 
— it  demands  momentary  revision  and  watchfulness. 


LECTURE  XI. 


LANDSCAPE  GARDENING.  — RELATION  OF  THE  ARTS.  — RIGHT 
OF  CRITICISM.  — DIMENSIONS  OF  GARDEN.  — OBJECT  OF 
GARDENING.  — ITS  RESOURCES,  PLANTS,  PLANTATIONS, 
NATURAL  FEATURES,  SURROUNDINGS,  SPACES,  WALKS, 
FENCES ARCHITECTURAL  AIDS.  — POWERS  DISCIPLINED. 

The  fine  arts  are  six,  and  readily  fall  into  three 
groups,  — gardening  and  architecture,  sculpture  and 
painting,  music  and  poetry.  Gardening  and  architec- 
ture are  united,  not  as  giving  play  to  the  same  powers 
or  exciting  the  same  feelings,  but  as  often  the  accom- 
paniments and  complements  of  each  other ; architec- 
ture giving  character  to  the  grounds,  and  the  grounds 
acting  upon  the  architecture,  and  the  two  uniting  in 
one  effect.  These  arts,  also,  are  pre-eminently  con- 
trolled by  utility,  having  immediate  reference  to  the 
use  and  pleasure  of  occupants  or  owners. 

Sculpture  and  painting  are  one  in  their  impressions, 
— their  relation  to  pleasure  and  gratified  taste,  — in 
the  powers  they  call  forth  in  the  artist,  and  in  their 
common  elements  of  expression,  — form  and  attitude. 

Music  and  poetry  are  related  both  in  the  harmony 
of  the  emotions  to  which  they  give  rise,  and  in  the 
mutual  aid  which  they  render  each  other.  Song  is  the 
combined  power  of  music  and  poetry.  The  one  sup- 
plies clearness  and  precision  to  emotion ; the  other, 
power  and  volume ; the  one  gives  direction,  and  the 
other  impulse,  to  the  soul. 


ORDER  OF  FINE  ARTS. 


161 


In  determining  the  relative  rank  of  these  arts,  we 
consider  the  powers  demanded  and  exercised  by  them 
in  the  artist ; the  scope  and  variety  of  their  means ; 
and  the  fulness  of  their  presentations  to  the  mind.  So 
judged,  we  should  arrange  the  groups,  and  the  arts 
contained  in  them,  in  the  order  in  which  they  have 
been  already  mentioned,  commencing  with  gardening, 
and  rising  in  the  scale  through  architecture,  sculpture, 
painting,  and  music,  to  poetry,  the  queen  of  arts. 

Gardening  reaches*  no  higher  than  the  lowest  king- 
dom of  life,  and  is  there  presentative,  not  creative.  Its 
chief  influence  is  due  to  the  forces  of  vegetable  life 
which  work  under  its  bidding.  Architecture,  through- 
out, is  creative,  owes  its  main  power,  not  to  that  which 
it  brings  forward,  but  to  its  own  skilful  combinations, 
and  in  its  ornamentation  draws  upon  all  living  forms. 

In  passing  to  sculpture,  we  reach  an  art  which  di- 
rectly and  distinctively  treats  the  human  form,  and  the 
more  subtile  and  spiritual  beauty  therein  expressed. 
There  is,  to  be  sure,  not  the  same  breadth  of  invention, 
the  same  skill  and  fertility  of  resources,  presented  here 
as  in  architecture,  but  in  the  great  requisite  of  beau- 
tiful expression,  deep,  various,  and  refined  feeling,  the 
art  which  makes  man  its  subject  has  an  advantage  not 
to  be  compensated.  There  may  be  more  reflection, 
more  action  of  the  intellect,  but  there  is  less  intense 
beauty,  less  taste,  in  architecture  than  in  sculpture. 
The  task  of  the  sculptor  may  be  less  varied,  and  call  for 
less  ingenuity,  but  it  demands  a nobler  idea,  a more 
thorough  perception  and  spiritual  insight  than  that  of 
the  architect.  Painting  includes  the  subject  of  sculp- 
ture and  more,  and  presents  its  object  not  only  in  form 
and  attitude,  but  also  in  shade  and  color.  While  it 


162 


LECTUKE  XL 


brings  man  forward  as  its  chief  theme,  it  has  through 
the  whole  field  of  nature  subordinate  themes,  full  and 
quickening.  Its  range  is  commensurate  with  the  vis- 
ible universe,  and  all  that  enters  our  spiritual  temple 
through  its  royal  portal,  its  beautiful  gate,  the  eye, 
may  be  presented  in  painting. 

In  passing  to  our  third  group,  the  subsidiary  art  of 
which  is  music,  we  seem,  in  one  respect,  to  have  fallen. 
The  mind  is  now  reached  through  its  secondary  avenue, 
the  ear,  and  there  is  a loss  — but  partial,  however  — 
of  that  varied  wealth  which  belongs  to  the  eye.  If 
music  stood  alone,  this  objection,  we  think,  would  be 
fatal  to  the  rank  here  allowed  it.  But  as  the  compan- 
ion and  partner  of  poetry,  it  retains  its  position  by  her 
side,  and  comes  both  to  share  and  enhance  her  clearness 
and  power  of  expression.  Taking,  then,  poetry  as  the 
royal,  the  representative  member  of  the  group,  we  see 
its  rank  justified  by  the  breadth  of  the  field  which  be- 
longs to  it.  It  roams  wherever  imagination  and  feel- 
ing roam,  and  within  the  limit  of  the  mind’s  faculties 
it  is  without  limit.  It  includes  in  its  images  all  that  the 
other  arts  present,  and  much  more.  It  is  as  reflective 
of  all  exterior  and  interior  phenomena  as  the  mirror 
of  language.  Content  with  no  single,  transient  image 
on  the  shifting  canvas  of  life,  it  gives  the  whole  as 
a living  experience,  a continuous  flow  of  vital  forces. 
Not  moments,  not  the  pause  of  events,  as  to  the  paint- 
ing, but  periods,  and  the  movement  and  hurry  of  forces, 
are  intrusted  to  it.  The  poem  is  a series  of  landscapes, 
is  the  soul  daguerrotyped  in  each  successive  hour  of 
its  existence  with  the  full,  changing  play  of  light  upon 
it,  and  of  its  impulses  within  it.  While  the  painting 
renders  a point  in  time,  a cross-section  of  events,  to 


POETRY. 


163 


the  poem  belongs  continuous  time,  — the  birth  of  ac- 
tions, their  growth,  their  epic  and  dramatic  issue. 

Nor  is  this  — its  fuller  mastery  of  time  — its  only 
superiority  ; it  has  also  a fuller  mastery  of  space,  of 
those  objects  at  any  one  instant  presentable  in  space. 
Its  want  of  accuracy  and  completeness  in  detail,  the 
relatively  slender  furniture  of  its  pictures,  enable  it 
to  move  the  more  rapidly,  to  involve  wider  fields, 
and  fields  more  remote  from  each  other,  and  to  mul- 
tiply its  scenes  with  a facility  and  wealth  unattain- 
able elsewhere.  The  supersensual  character  of  its 
images  enables  it  to  treat  many  themes  for  which  the 
touch  of  the  brush  is  too  rough.  The  angelic  and 
divine,  while  yielding  readily  to  the  poet,  may  greatly 
embarrass  or  wholly  elude  the  painter.  The  very  fact 
that  in  poetry  the  imagination  paints  for  the  imagina- 
tion, with  no  other  medium  than  wholly  arbitrary  signs, 
gives  a scope  and  boldness  which  cannot  readily  be 
reached  in  more  accurate,  and  hence  more  sensuous 
images.  Every  man’s  imagination  is  addressed,  stimu- 
lated, and  directed  by  the  poem,  but  not  so  definitely 
bound  and  straitened  by  the  words  as  not  to  find  large 
play  for  its  own  creative  power.  The  painting,  within 
its  limits,  does  more  for  the  eye,  but  by  this  very  fact 
is  restricted  in  the  limits  which  fall  to  it.  The  paint- 
ing has  fulness,  the  poem  scope  ; the  one  renders  much, 
the  other  suggests  much.  Perusing  the  one,  we  are 
students ; perusing  the  other,  we  are  artists.  The  color 
gives  a limit  and  a curb  to  imagination,  against  which, 
if  not  divinely  rendered,  it  will  often  chafe  ; the  word  is 
a starting-point  and  stimulus  to  imagination,  to  which  it 
only  returns  as  the  key  and  storehouse  of  its  treasures. 

The  fact,  that  in  poetry  the  imagination  acts  directly 


164 


LECTURE  XI. 


on  the  imagination,  through  signs  in  themselves  mean- 
ingless, — that,  in  its  presentations  of  spiritual  phenom- 
ena, it  can  reach  them,  aside  from  their  visible  forms 
and  effects,  sporting  between  a bold  fact  and  an  intangi- 
ble conception,  in  the  light  and  out  of  the  light,  as  suits 
its  necessity  or  its  pleasure,  — that  it  completely  renders 
nothing,  but  leaves  all  things  to  be  rendered  by  the 
recipient,  or  rather,  the  aroused  mind,  gives  it  a scope 
and  power  which  belong  to  no  other  art.  Add  to  this, 
that  in  metre  and  music  it  often  has  the  aid  of  a new 
sense  which  does  not  elsewhere  appear  in  the  arts,  and 
its  pre-eminence  is  evident. 

It  does  not  belong  to  our  plan  to  treat  the  arts  in 
their  rules,  or  even  fully  in  the  particular  application 
of  principles  which  they  present,  but  to  mark  the  object 
of  each  art,  and  the  means  at  its  disposal.  The  mas- 
tery of  these  means  is  largely  mechanical,  and  falls  to 
the  artist  alone.  Their  application  to  the  office  or 
object  of  the  art  when  known  must  be  within,  and  sub- 
ject to,  those  principles  of  taste  already  laid  down. 
The  application  of  these  principles  in  individual  cases  is 
practical  criticism,  — a species  of  skill  to  be  acquired 
by  familiarity  with  works  of  art,  and  by  their  careful 
and  protracted  study.  The  application  of  principles 
involves  a training  of  the  perceptive  and  judicial  pow- 
ers quite  distinct  from  a mere  knowledge  of  principles. 
The  meter,  with  all  its  graduations  and  possible  uses, 
may  be  known,  but  skilful  manipulation  still  remains 
to  be  acquired,  or  it  fails  of  its  office. 

The  first  group,  gardening  and  architecture,  is  that 
of  utility.  They  indicate  the  skill  and  power,  and  at 
the  same  time  the  pleasure,  with  which  man  reaches  his 
physical  good.  While  in  these  arts  perfectly  shaping 


CRITICISM. 


165 


the  material  at  his  disposal  to  a magnificent  realization 
of  his  wants,  he  shows  leisure  to  utter  feeling,  and  de- 
light the  mind  with  concurrent  beauties. 

The  second  group  is  primarily  representative,  and 
memorative.  Sculpture  and  painting  are  reproductive 
of  our  most  noble  and  most  stirring  facts,  — the  reflec- 
tion of  the  fullest  things  in  nature  and  man.  They 
struggle  to  commemorate  the  high  virtue  which  time 
has  struck  down,  the  startling  beauty  which  the  chang- 
ing elements  have  abolished,  or  the  feeling  which  the 
yet  more  shifting  tide  of  thought  hastes  to  snatch 
away. 

These  arts  are  the  counterparts  of  the  real,  having  in 
them  the  facts,  the  truths,  the  ideals  of  nature. 

The  third  group,  as  opposed  to  the  other  two,  is  in- 
tellectual, not  as  addressing  the  intellect,  but  as  lying 
solely  in  the  intellect  without  any  external,  material 
creation  corresponding  to  the  internal  impression.  In 
its  inherent  power,  this  group  is  stimulative  and  sympa- 
thetic,— the  medium  through  which  we  lend  our  im- 
pulses and  our  feelings  to  all. 

We  shall  consider  these  six  arts  in  their  order,  com- 
mencing with  gardening. 

In  each  of  these,  our  only  object  will  be  to  deter- 
mine the  province  of  the  art,  or,  more  definitely,  the 
ai'ms  open  to  it,  and  the  means  by  which  these  are  to  be 
reached.  A knowledge  of  the  manner  in  which  these 
means  are  to  be  employed  does  not  necessarily  belong 
to  one  who  merely  judges  the  effects  and  results  of  art, 
— who  decides  upon  the  aestlietical  merit,  the  beauty  of 
a work.  There  are  two  points  open  for  judgment  in 
any  work  of  art ; — its  actual  power  and  expression  ; the 
difficulties  met  and  overcome  in  reaching  this  power. 


166 


LECTURE  XI. 


The  first  pertains  to  intrinsic  merit  or  value,  the  sec- 
ond to  the  skill  and  ingenuity  evinced.  The  one  is  a 
question  of  taste,  which  any  mind  of  quick  and  culti- 
vated perceptions  may  without  assumption  answer,  the 
very  inquiry  being,  What  is  the  impression  which  the 
work  is  fitted  to  make  on  natures  duly  sensitive  ? The 
other  is  a question  of  art,  of  contrivance  and  manual 
skill,  only  to  be  rightly  answered  by  those  familiar  with 
the  methods  and  difficulties  of  the  work,  — by  artists. 

The  first  of  these  points  is  not  to  be  relinquished  to 
the  amateur  and  artist. 

We  are  not  to  be  told  what  is  beautiful,  and  assigned 
the  irksome  task  of  admiring  it.  We  are,  so  far  as 
possessed  of  a trained  and  cultivated  nature,  the  judges 
of  art,  and  that  is  good  art  which  quickens  and  gratifies 
our  feelings.  He  who  is  able  to  feel  and  admire  the 
works  of  God,  a fortiori  is  able  to  appreciate  and  ad- 
mire those  of  man  ; and  this  is  the  touchstone  of  these 
works,  — their  ability  to  arouse  interest  and  fill  the 
soul  of  man.  In  one  respect  the  artist  is  even  less  able 
to  judge  correctly  a work  of  art,  in  its  claims  to  beauty, 
than  one  in  other  respects  of  equal  culture.  The  two 
considerations  of  merit  and  skill,  in  themselves  so  dis- 
tinct, will  inevitably  be  mingled  in  his  decisions.  Much 
work  is  admired  which  has  slight  claims  to  intrinsic 
beauty,  simply  because  the  honest  opinions  and  feel- 
ings of  men  are  overborne  by  artistic  judgments.  Those 
who  are  authorized  to  judge  do  not  dare  either  to  ask 
themselves  what  they  like,  or  not  to  seem  to  like  what 
artists  have  imperatively  told  them  they  must  like. 

Opinions,  therefore,  which  in  their  formation  may 
have  much  greater  reference  to  ingenuity  and  clever 
craft  than  to  simple  and  powerful  expression,  which 


GARDENING. 


167 


even  may  have  arisen  from  the  prejudices  and  per- 
versions of  artists,  often  overrule  the  sentiments  of 
educated  communities,  and  leave  them  the  awkward 
devotees  of  a costly  art,  from  which  they  receive  no 
pleasure,  and  in  which  they  find  no  compensation. 

All  that  we  can  and  shall  say  will  have  reference  to 
the  first  point,  will  tacitly  rest  upon  an  assertion  of  our 
right  to  judge  the  intrinsic  beauty  of  works  of  art,  and, 
by  showing  the  scope  and  range  of  such  works,  will 
strive  to  aid  us  in  rendering  a correct  judgment. 

In  all  instances,  a knowledge  of  the  relations  and 
offices  of  an  object  is  requisite  to  judge  of  the  felicity 
of  the  method  in  which  these  are  met.  This  is  true 
equally  in  nature  and  art.  We  must  possess,  therefore, 
the  general  principles  which  circumscribe  and  guide 
any  art,  which  give  form  and  limit  to  its  products, 
before  we  can  render  a tolerably  accurate  judgment  of 
its  results. 

Gardening  is  primarily  a useful  art,  whose  aim  is  to 
furnish  those  vegetables  and  fruits  which  support  life 
and  gratify  taste.  In  most  cases,  it  but  slightly  trans- 
cends this,  its  first  object ; yet,  in  the  regularity  of  its 
forms  and  the  accuracy  of  its  lines,  good  gardening 
often  betrays  a secret  aspiration  for  the  beautiful.  This 
ambition,  however,  only  becomes  obvious  and  avowed 
when  the  utility  aimed  at  is  enlarged,  and  becomes  less 
direct  and  marketable.  A park  is  said  to  be  the  lungs 
of  a city.  The  garden  and  surrounding  grounds  are 
the  lungs  of  a family,  and  when  men  begin  to  stretch 
their  stakes,  lengthen  their  walks,  and  expand  their 
culture,  that  they  may  enclose  for  their  own  immediate 
use  more  of  earth  and  air,  and  give  to  their  leisure 
hours  a healthy  ventilation,  and  to  the  family  a larger 


168 


LECTUEE  XL 


out-door  life,  there  will  immediately  arise  a new  and 
stronger  demand  for  beauty,  and  we  shall  have  land- 
scape gardening,  a fine  art. 

The  prime  utility  here  is  air  and  healthy  exercise, 
to  which  art  comes  in  to  add  the  much  higher  emo- 
tional and  intellectual  utility  of  beauty  and  truth, 
locked  up  in  living  organisms.  Physical  utility,  how- 
ever, at  the  very  outset,  assigns  a law  severe  and 
imperative  to  landscape  gardening. 

The  enclosure  of  the  individual  for  strictly  personal 
pleasures  must  have  limits  relatively  narrow.  The  first, 
last,  and  abiding  impression  must  not  be  of  the  greed 
and  egotism  of  the  owner,  as  of  one  who  would  be 
alone  on  the  earth,  — who  devours  up,  in  his  luxuries, 
the  vineyard  of  Naboth,  the  gardens  of  the  poor,  — 
who  possesses  more  than  he  can  use,  and  aims  at  im- 
pression through  magnitude,  — the  last  resort  of  self- 
ish, vulgar  wealth.  This  does  not,  indeed,  interfere 
with  great  physical  beauty  in  all  parts  of  such  lordly 
grounds  ; yet  this  beauty  is  overpowered  and  destroyed 
in  its  effect  by  being  put  to  the  wretched  work  of  ex- 
pressing the  foolish  vanity  or  heartless  pride  of  the 
owner.  There  must  be  a broad,  just,  and  humane  de- 
mocracy in  a man’s  faith,  actions,  and  possessions,  be- 
fore, in  their  relations  to  him,  they  can  be  right,  they 
can  be  beautiful. 

The  garden  is  the  family  portion  in  God’s  sunlight, 
air,  and  earth,  — the  breathing-place  of  our  spiritual 
nature,  of  gratitude  and  of  love,  and  as  such  it  should 
show  the  affectionate  hand  of  the  owner,  and  be  propor- 
tioned to  his  modest  wants  and  rights.  No  usurpation 
should  find  place  here,  — no  second-hand  pride,  padded 
with  the  real  and  modest  virtues  of  artists  and  garden- 


SIZE. 


169 


ers.  The  seminary  and  the  college,  the  village  and  the 
city,  may  have  their  ample  grounds  on  which  wealth 
lavishes  itself,  for  these  represent  the  combined  wants 
of  many,  and  often  what  the  rich  are  willing  to  do  for 
the  poor.  A grand  park  in  the  centre  of  a crowded 
and  gasping  population  is  man  uniting  with  God  to 
restore  the  inspired  gospel  of  nature,  of  pure  light  and 
of  open  heavens,  to  those  crushed  and  buried  under 
brick  and  mortar. 

The  world  is  not  so  small,  however,  but  that  each 
may,  with  modesty,  in  most  localities,  take  for  himself 
a very  considerable  portion,  and  a larger  portion,  since 
it  may  be  readily  treated  in  reference  both  to  agricul- 
ture and  beauty,  and,  while  quickening  the  taste  of  its 
possessor,  render  its  full  quota  for  the  nourishment  of 
man.  There  is  in  what  has  been  said  no  denial  of  the 
assertion  that  the  intellectual  and  sesthetical  end  is  in- 
trinsically of  greater  value  than  the  physical  end,  but 
only  the  implied  assertion  that  the  higher  end  is  best 
reached  under  the  limitation  of  the  lower. 

Having  determined  that  the  pleasure-garden  must  ex- 
press modesty  and  moderation  in  its  dimensions,  and 
be  within  the  wants  and  affectionate  treatment  of  the 
family,  and  that  it  must  not  be  sustained  as  a useless 
appendage  of  wealth,  only  valuable  because  costly,  we 
return  to  our  inquiry,  What,  under  these  conditions, 
* are  its  objects  and  resources  ? 

The  object  of  landscape  gardening  is  the  most  effec- 
tive presentation  of  natural  objects,  primarily  those  of 
the  vegetable  kingdom,  and  secondarily  those  of  the  in- 
organic. The  material  belongs  to  nature : cultivation, 
calling  forth  the  best  powers  of  herb,  shrub,  and  tree ; 
and  arrangement,  skilfully  combining  these  into  the 
8 


1T0 


LECTURE  XI. 


most  pleasing  product,  belong  to  man.  The  world  is 
full  of  natural  beauty  altogether  aside  from  man’s  ac- 
tion upon  it ; indeed,  this  beauty  more  frequently  suf- 
fers from  his  passions  and  pursuits,  than  is  aided  by  his 
taste.  Yet  it  is  capable  of  receiving  such  aid,  and 
many  of  the  choice  powers  of  nature  are  reserved  to 
reward  the  skill  and  affection  of  man.  The  world  in- 
vites the  exercise  of  taste  by  the  new  beauties  with 
which  she  crowns  it.  This  enhanced  and  condensed 
effect  is  the  object  of  landscape  gardening,  and  the 
problem  of  the  gardener  is,  How  best  to  secure  and  pre- 
sent the  natural  beauties  within  his  reach.  Art  is  here 
in  the  service  of  nature,  and  hidden  under  her  guise. 
The  garden  should  show  us  what  contrivance  and 
arrangement  have  done,  or  rather  have  caused  nature 
to  do,  but  not  the  contrivance  and  arrangement  them- 
selves. This  object  of  gardening  gives  us  at  once  a very 
important  principle,  — that  all  tricks,  deceptions,  and 
palpable  conceits  are  to  be  laid  aside,  the  artist  being 
everywhere  concealed  by  the  luxuriant  and  native 
growth  of  his  work.  The  object  is  to  exhibit  living 
beauties  and  natural  forms,  and  not  human  contriv- 
ances. This  object  also  will  limit  the  number  of 
architectural  works  and  ornaments  that  may  be  em- 
ployed. In  proportion  as  the  garden  is  rich,  various, 
and  full,  these  should  disappear,  and  only  as  nature 
relaxes  and  becomes  more  subdued  and  monotonous  may 
art  bring  forward  her  creations.  A garden  is  greatly 
injured  by  a self-conceit  which  tinkers  and  tutors  every- 
thing, which  cuts  and  stakes  and  straightens,  till  all 
freedom  and  scope  are  fretted  away,  and  nature  knows 
not  where  to  hide  herself  from  her  persecutor.  The 
garden  does  not  exhibit  the  man,  but  the  man’s  love  of 


RESOURCES  OF  GARDENING. 


171 


lower  life,  his  pleasurable  study  of  one  great  chapter  in 
the  Creator’s  work. 

Having  this  object  definitely  before  us,  — the  presen- 
tation of  natural  beauties,  — we  proceed  to  inquire  what 
are  the  resources  of  the  gardener. 

( a .)  First  among  these  are  herbs,  shrubs,  and  trees, 
treated  as  individual  specimens.  For  this  purpose  they 
need  to  stand  alone,  that  all  their  lines  may  be  seen, 
and  to  receive  generous  culture,  that  the  native  power 
of  the  plant  may  be  fully  drawn  out.  Sometimes  the 
plant  in  its  entire,  native  outline  is  desired,  — the  rest- 
ful and  luxuriant  ideal  of  its  species.  In  this  case,  it 
is  to  be  sheltered  from  accident,  and  from  the  most 
awkward  of  accidents,  the  pruning-knife.  Sometimes 
one  portion  of  the  plant  is  sacrificed  to  another,  — as  in 
horticulture  the  boughs  to  the  fruit,  and  in  many  shrubs 
and  vines  the  shoots  to  the  flowers.  It  is  worthy,  how- 
ever, of  our  notice,  that  the  tree  and  the  nobler  and 
statelier  shrubs  rely  far  more  on  free,  symmetrical,  and 
native  forms  than  on  flowers  for  their  power,  and  hold 
themselves  aloof  from  the  curbing  and  cropping  that  fall 
so  plentifully  on  minor  plants.  The  integrity  of  a plant 
should,  as  far  as  possible,  be  respected. 

(6.)  A second  resource  is  herbs,  shrubs,  and  trees, 
grouped  in  the  plot  and  the  plantation.  Plants  are 
social,  and  when  clustered  mutually  modify  each  other, 
and  often  secure  a new  and  striking  effect.  As  herbs 
are  primarily  cultivated  for'  the  flower,  of  which  color  is 
a prominent  element,  this  as  well  as  form  becomes  an 
important  consideration  in  blending  them  with  each 
other.  In  a group,  resemblance  rather  than  contrast 
should  be  sought,  as  the  mind  is  both  more  instructed 
and  interested  in  observing  resemblances  than  in  noting 


172 


LECTURE  XL 


differences,  and  finds  more  pleasure  in  the  harmony 
than  in  the  conflict,  or  even  contrast,  of  color. 

Shrubs  and  trees  gathered  into  clumps  lose  their  in- 
dependent form,  unite  in  a common  life,  and  present  a 
compound  outline  with  shifting  shadows,  deep  recesses, 
and  variegated  surfaces,  and  thus  become  possessed  of 
an  associated  power  quite  beyond  that  of  the  individ- 
ual. 

The  grouping  of  flowers  in  plots  in  reference  to  color 
and  characteristics,  and  of  trees  in  plantations  in  refer- 
ence to  dutline  and  power,  is  an  elementary  and  most 
important  combination  in  gardening.  The  ground  plan 
or  outline  of  the  plantation  will  rarely  be  defined  or 
regular,  but  the  clump  will  concentrate  or  expand  itself 
according  to  the  office  it  has  to  perform.  The  outline 
of  the  flower-plot,  on  the  other  hand,  must,  from  the 
necessities  of  cultivation,  be  distinctly  marked.  The 
most  easy,  and  at  the  same  time  the  most  barren, 
boundaries  for  these  are  mathematical  figures.  The 
first  action  of  thought  always  tends  to  throw  this  ex- 
treme regularity  into  its  products ; the  growth  of  feel- 
ing soon  breaks  it  up.  Complex  mathematical  and 
regular  forms  are  less  fortunate  than  these  forms  when 
simple.  They  are  too  artificial,  perplex  the  eye,  and 
require  too  much  care  to  maintain  them.  The  best  out- 
lines for  the  plot  are  secured  by  plain,  easy,  and  open 
curves,  now  uniting  in  regular,  now  in  irregular  yet 
definite  figures,  and  ever  seeming  to  give  free  action  to 
the  enclosed  life,  by  yielding  an  open  space  to  its  slight- 
est pressure.  Outlines  of  this  sort  are  strokes  of  fancy 
whose  principal  virtue  is  graceful  curvature. 

(c.)  A third  resource  is  the  natural  advantages 
which  the  enclosed  ground  presents.  These  are  chiefly 


NATURE  OF  THE  GROUND. 


173 


inequalities  and  roll  of*  surface,  water,  and  rocks.  If 
these  are  present  in  any  good  degree,  they  at  once 
give  plan  and  character  to  the  whole  work.  They 
afford  a harvest  of  obvious  opportunities  which  the 
artist  carefully  gathers,  making  each  striking  object  a 
distinct  feature,  and  the  central  subject  of  a distinct 
treatment.  The  bold  variety  which  nature  has  so 
kindly  furnished  he  makes  haste  to  present,  clothing 
the  rugged  places  with  their  own  forms  of  life,  and 
the  richer  intervals  with  the  luxurious  plants  of  afflu- 
ence ; suffering  the  dark  evergreen  to  gather  in  sad 
recesses,  and  the  deciduous  trees  to  wander  out  in 
free  spaces  and  open  sunshine ; rejoicing  in  the  rock 
which  bears  a stubborn,  naked  front,  and  will  not 
away,  and  in  the  rivulet  which  is  ever  going,  yet  tarries 
when  the  rock  is  worn  to  dust. 

Among  these  natural  resources,  none  has  been  a 
more  general  and  just  favorite  than  water,  especially 
when  presenting  a broad  surface.  Water  itself  is  a 
strangely  subtile  element,  and,  in  that  inner  world  of 
shadows  and  reflection  which  such  a sheet  presents, 
we  have  a strong  appeal  to  the  imagination,  — a silent 
and  magical  echo  of  the  fitful  world  above,  itself  more 
fitful  still.  This  recording  consciousness  of  water,  who 
has  not  loved  to  watch  ? 

A level  field  lays  a heavier  duty  on  the  artist  and 
justifies  more  of  architectural  embellishment.  An  effort 
to  supply  the  place  of  natural  advantages  by  artificial 
excavations  and  mounds  is  at  best  but  partially  suc- 
cessful, and  only  possible  in  connection  with  those 
large  expenditures  which  can  only  accompany  public 
works.  Slight  mounds  are  for  the  most  part  worth- 
less, arid,  and  insignificant  imitations.  This  is  not  true, 


174 


LECTURE  XL 


in  the  same  degree,  of  water-basins,  as  these,  though 
small,  subserve  an  obvious  purpose,  and  are  not  mere 
faint  mimicry  of  nature.  When  the  ground  enclosed 
presents  any  distinctive  features,  the  improvement  and 
separate  treatment  of  these  give  a second  principle  of 
combination,  and  the  plot  and  the  plantation  are  so 
used  as  to  preserve  the  individuality  and  character 
of  these  more  favored  portions. 

( d .)  The  fourth  element  subject  to  the  skill  of 
the  gardener  are  the  prospects  without  the  enclosure. 
These  may  be  both  favorable  and  unfavorable,  and  he 
is  then  desirous  to  preserve  entire  the  one,  and  pro- 
tect himself  against  the  other.  Both  of  these  ends 
are  reached  through  the  arrangement  of  trees  and 
shrubbery.  Plantations  shelter  the  eye  from  the  offence 
of  surrounding  objects,  and  substitute  for  the  out- 
buildings of  a neighbor  their  own  green  depths  and 
endless  diversity.  These  also,  opening  out  into  shady 
vistas  or  breaking  away  into  free  and  airy  spaces,  leave 
the  eye  at  liberty  to  reach  a distant  beauty  or  sweep 
in  an  adjoining  landscape.  Surrounding  objects  give 
a law  to  the  plan  of  the  garden,  a second  principle 
of  combination  to  the  foliage.  Certain  things  are  to 
be  concealed,  certain  as  carefully  retained,  and  the 
surroundings,  sifted  of  their  deformities,  are  to  come 
in  as  most  important  adjuncts,  giving  wealth  and  ex- 
tension to  the  garden,  and  putting  it  in  sympathy  with 
the  broad  world  about  it.  If  views  are  to  be  retained, 
they  cannot  be  equally  retained  from  all  points.  This 
would  demand  an  open  field  and  exclude  gardening. 
There  must,  therefore,  be  favored  points,  — out-looks 
for  which  these  advantages  are  reserved.  The  selec- 
tion and  management  of  these  become  an  early  and 


PROSPECTS.  — SPACES. 


175 


important  question.  If  the  surrounding  views  are  di- 
verse, — some  of  cities  and  villages,  some  of  forests  and 
mountains  in  silent  repose,  — the  question  arises,  at  what 
points,  and  upon  what  conditions,  shall  this  outside 
world  be  admitted.  Shall  the  garish  light  of  gleam- 
ing walls  and  glittering  spires  be  made  to  traverse 
th^long  vista,  to  leap  the  foliage  from  bough  to  bough, 
till,  filtered  of  the  sounds  and  busy  vanity  of  man,  it 
comes  to  the  silent  shrine  of  the  spirit,  the  washed 
pilgrim  of  the  distant  world  ? Or  shall  we  roll  back 
our  green  curtains,  and  open  wide  our  eager  portals 
that  the  world  in  dusty  garments,  with  cart  and  car- 
riage may  drive  pell-mell  upon  us  ? And  that  broad 
sweep  of  hill  and  forest,  where  God  works  in  repose, 
and  is  busy  in  silence,  shall  we  not  open  our  hearts 
full  upon  it,  and  ask  it  to  speak  to  us  from  its  throne 
of  life,  — life,  God-given,  God-sustained,  the  divinest 
thing  of  earth  ? 

(e.)  Another  distinct  and  most  important  element 
are  intervening  and  open  spaces,  both  in  what  they 
give  below  and  above.  A taste  just  aroused  will  sub- 
stitute, without  compunction,  flowers  in  continuous 
beds  for  the  smoothest  lawn,  and  the  richest  carpet 
ever  woven  in  loom.  A little  later,  and  we  break  the 
surface  with  caution  and  reluctance,  gathering  the 
flowers  into  detached  plots,  where  they  may  over- 
shadow the  soil,  and,  creeping  down  to  their  well- 
defined  border,  become  the  rarer  jewels  of  the  green 
enamel.  Open  spaces  in  clear  light,  and  with  cautious 
ornament,  give  full  respiration  and  cheerful  rest  to 
the  mind  and  eye.  Nor  are  they  less  advantageous 
in  opening  up  the  sky  in  its  azure,  than  the  earth  in 
its  green.  These  two  colors,  the  staples  of  the  upper 


176 


LECTURE  XL 


and  the  lower  fields,  have  a constant^an  hourly  mission, 
and  we  must  not  be  deficient  in  these  necessities  of 
life.  Every  good  gardener  will  be  cautious  how  he 
shears  into  fragments  and  patch-work  his  simplest,  and, 
for  that  reason,  his  best  and  most  reliable  material. 

The  lawn  also  furnishes,  in  connection  with  sur- 
rounding and  scattered  objects,  an  opportunity  to  a^il 
ourselves  of  shadows,  — the  cheerful,  evanishing  re- 
tinue of  morning,  the  spectral  thronging  crowd  of 
evening.  These  lovely  adjuncts  of  the  coming  and  de- 
parting day,  dials  of  the  passing  hour,  are  not  to  be 
forgotten.  To  these  open  spaces  will  also  belong  the 
encompassing  glories  which  often  attend  the  sunrise 
and  sunset.  When  the  whole  arch  is  a canvas,  radi- 
ant with  Divine  workmanship,  we  would  not  be  smoth- 
ered in  a forest,  but  lifted  out  on  the  naked  earth,  — 
the  more  naked  the  better,  for  we  now  look  heaven- 
ward. 

(/.)  An  important  resource  of  gardening  reserved  to 
this  point  are  walks  and  avenues,  — in  private  grounds, 
the  first  being  more  prominent ; in  public  grounds,  the 
second.  Walks  are  the  skeleton  of  the  garden,  and 
largely  express,  though  they  do  not  constitute,  its  plan. 
If  any  of  the  resources  already  mentioned  furnish  dis- 
tinct points,  and  give  character  to  any  portion  of  the 
enclosure,  this  fact  must  first  be  known,  and  the  paths 
be  made  to  recognize  it  and  conform  to  it.  The  land 
is  first  to  be  looked  over  in  reference  to  its  suggestions 
and  possibilities  within  and  without ; and  these  being 
secured,  the  outline  of  paths  which  include  and  reach 
them  will  begin  to  be  seen.  That  is  a very  barren 
ground  in  which  walks  of  pleasant  curvature  and  con- 
venient spaces  may  be  placed  at  random.  While  the 


WALKS. 


m 


character  of  the  enclosure  and  the  relation  of  objects 
will  do  much  to  determine  the  walks,  there  are  other 
points  of  interest  in  their  treatment. 

(a.)  Their  centre  is  the  dwelling,  and  to  this  is  their 
chief  relation.  As  they  approach  it,  they  become  more 
direct,  as  if  seized  with  a definite  object. 

(6.)  They  are  to  be  managed  with  a constant  recol- 
lection of  the  fact  that  they  are  paths  to  be  walked  in, 
and  that  men  love,  even  in  rambling,  to  have  an  object, 
to  go  somewhere,  and  also,  that  in  reaching  such  an 
object,  they  do  not  unnecessarily  make  sharp  curves, 
or  pursue  a circuitous,  wasting,  zigzag  path,  but,  unless 
prevented  by  some  obstacle,  approach  directly,  with  only 
minor  fluctuations.  This  directness  is  not  often  to 
lapse  into  a straight  line,  for  such  a line  is  less  pleasing 
than  a curve,  reveals  at  the  outset  all  the  ground  to  be 
passed  over,  and  belongs  to  the  theodolite,  and  not  to 
nature.  On  the  other  hand,  if  a large  circuit  is  obvi- 
ously made,  a reason  must  be  rendered  for  it  in  the 
presence  of  an  intervening  obstruction.  Paths,  for  they 
are  paths  of  men,  are  not  to  wander  purposeless  and 
wild  over  a field,  as  if  they  had  gone  mad. 

(c.)  Walks  should  be  few.  Their  gravelly  surfaces 
are  barren  to  the  eye,  they  are  kept  with  much  labor, 
and  are,  after  all,  a constraint.  We  feel  as  strangers 
when  everywhere  told  by  these  trim  monitors  to  keep 
off  the  grass.  The  object  of  a garden  is  not  to  walk 
forever  on  gravel,  but  to  get  off  the  gravel.  Where  the 
travel  is  not  so  direct  or  constant  as  to  destroy  the  sod, 
let  your  foot  fall  silently  on  the  fresh,  living  lap  of  earth, 
God’s  gift  to  your  sandal. 

( d .)  Walks  are,  as  far  as  possible,  to  take  the  place 
of  avenues.  In  a large  park  accessible  to  many  only  in 

8*  L 


178 


LECTURE  XI. 


carriages,  and  essentially  a public  place,  these  broad 
belts  of  gravel,  where  affluence  rolls  leisurely  along, 
ostensibly  to  admire  nature,  in  fact  itself  to  be  admired, 
are  unavoidable.  But  I know  not  why  they  should  be 
admitted  further  than  necessity  requires.  A garden  is 
not  to  be  driven  through  on  a trot,  or  looked  over  on 
horseback.  It  is  a volume  to  be  quietly,  slowly  read, 
and  communed  with.  He  who  visits  his  garden  in  a 
carriage,  has  no  garden,  and  cheats  himself  and  his 
friends  with  a fantasy. 

(g*.)  Last  among  the  resources,  or  at  least  the 
adjuncts,  of  gardening  may  be  placed  the  enclosing 
hedges,  walls,  or  fences,  and  architectural  ornaments. 
An  enclosure  is  a necessity,  rather  than  a beauty.  The 
presumption  is  against  a fence ; it  must  always  show 
reason  for  its  presence.  It  is  rather  characteristic  of 
American  taste  to  delight  in  fences.  This  may  in  part 
arise  from  the  fact  that  it  has  been  the  first  duty  of  the 
emigrant  to  fence  in  his  own  from  the  unfenced  wil- 
derness, and  that  a sense  of  work  done,  of  ownership 
secured,  does  not  arise  till  a good  rail  zigzag,  fretted 
with  stakes,  marks  his  borders.  However  this  may  be, 
the  farmer  who  owns  hundreds  of  acres  -insists  upon 
one,  two,  or  three  narrow  enclosures  about  his  dwelling, 
and  the  village  resident  must  show  his  wealth  in  a 
costly  and  obtrusive  fence,  necessarily  destitute  of  archi- 
tectural value,  and  with  its  glare  of  paint  striving  to 
atone  to  the  eye  for  the  verdure  which  should  be  be- 
hind it. 

Where  fences  must  be,  they  should  be  as  simple  and 
unobtrusive  as  possible,  being  in  themselves  unworthy 
of  any  great  expense,  and  little  fitted  for  ornament  by 
their  rough  service.  A high,  heavy  fence  gives  the 


ARCHITECTURAL  AIDS. 


179 


impression,  on  the  outside,  of  cool  reserve,  of  an  army 
in  trenches,  and  on  the  inside  of  constraint.  It  must 
have  its  origin  in  necessity.  Seclusion  can  be  reached 
through  trees  without  thrusting  a blank  wall  in  the  face 
of  the  innocent  traveller.  It  is  a sad  comment  on  pub- 
lic virtue  when  every  picket  seems  designed  to  impale 
a thief,  and  one  looks  for  grim-visaged  death  on  a 
garden  fence  as  on  castle  pikes.  Nature  offers  us  re- 
tirement, robbed  of  its* sour  pride  and  saucy  impudence, 
in  the  living  hedge ; yet  even  this  will  be  used  with 
caution,  if  we  are  willing  to  refresh  the  passer-by  with 
what  God  has  granted  for  our  refreshment,  if  we  are 
willing  to  add  this,  our  private  beauty,  to  the  beauty 
of  the  world.  It  is  also  to  be  remembered  that  he  who 
fences  out  the  eye  of  a stranger,  by  a gracious  retribu- 
tion, fences  himself  in,  robs  his  grounds  of  that  catholic 
sympathy  in  which  nature  loves  to  stand  with  herself. 

Gardening  stands  in  close  relation  to  architecture, 
being  usually  the  dependant  of  the  dwelling.  Archi- 
tecture, with  its  bridges,  trellises,  arbors,  and  conserva- 
tories, may  furnish  gardening  fine  embellishments ; but 
in  proportion  as  the  garden  is  itself  affluent,  these  are 
not  required,  -and,  if  present,  should  be  of  a rural  char- 
acter. Elaborate  and  careful  architecture  is  better  near 
the  dwelling  and  subservient  to  it,  than  when  striving 
with  natural  beauties  for  attention.  With  yet  more 
propriety  does  the  dwelling  keep  at  a distance  all  larger 
shrubs  and  trees,  suffering  nothing  to  tower  just  at 
hand  in  contrast  with  it,  chafing  it,  or  concealing  it. 
If  it  has  any  architectural  merit,  this  should  meet  and 
satisfy  the  eye.  Vines,  and  the  more  dependent  and 
modest  shrubs,  seeking  support  and  shelter,  join  them- 
selves to  the  dwelling,  while  the  rank,  independent,  and 


180 


LECTURE  XI. 


stately  growths  retreat  a little,  as  not  venturing  to 
crowd  upon  their  principal.  Protection  and  shelter 
are  indeed  desirable  in  the  vicinity  of  the  house,  but 
not  less  are  air  and  sunlight.  This  union  of  the  resi- 
dence with  its  surroundings,  through  lesser  and  unob- 
trusive plants,  will  best  meet  the  conditions  of  use,  will 
preserve  the  integrity  of  architecture  and  gardening  as 
independent  sources  of  expression,  and  also  mark  their 
sympathy  with  each  other. 

In  the  primary  end  of  gardening  — a presentation 
of  natural  beauties  fitted  to  elicit  and  interest  the  feel- 
ings, — there  are  included  many  subsidiary  ends.  It  is 
sufficient  to  mention  a few  of  these,  — shelter  and  seclu- 
sion ; variety,  reached  by  a careful  separation  and  dis- 
tinction of  members  in  the  garden,  not  suffering  the 
eye  to  range  beyond  the  department  immediately  before 
it ; unity,  the  mutual  connection  of  these  portions,  by 
which  each  unites  to  complete  without  repeating  the 
other ; contrast  and  harmony. 

The  principal  sesthetical  powers  called  forth  and 
cultivated  in  the  artist  by  landscape  gardening  are 
( a ) perception,  Qf)  combination,  (c)  conception. 

Too  much  stress  can  hardly  be  laid  upon  the  familiar 
study  of  natural  objects,  as  refining  and  correcting  the 
taste,  and  enabling  the  student,  with  much  knowledge 
of  elementary  forms  and  with  a correct  standard  of  ex- 
cellence, to  pass  to  the  other  arts.  All  art  should  be 
rooted  in  a careful  and  loving  estimate  of  the  workman- 
ship of  the  world.  He  who  has  not  been  trained  to  an 
appreciative  love  of  nature,  will  be  a poor  worker  and 
guide  in  art. 

The  artist  is  also,  in  a manner,  creative.  He  uses 
the  material  at  his  disposal,  but  he  unites  it  into  a new 


POWERS  DISCIPLINED. 


181 


and  powerful  effect.  This  effect  is  the  product  of  his 
arranging  and  combining  power,  — of  his  treatment, 
and  exhibits  that  use  and  mastery  of  resources  which 
is  the  only  creation  open  to  human  genius. 

In  conceiving  this  effect,  in  reaching  this  predeter- 
mined result,  the  imagination  is  disciplined.  The  re- 
sults of  an  act,  as  of  planting  or  felling  a tree,  are  some- 
times remote,  sometimes  not  easily  corrected  ; and  to 
make  each  step  successful,  the  mind  needs  to  have 
these  consequences  in  distinct  anticipation,  to  see  clearly 
both  the  thing  to  be  reached  and  the  steps  by  which  it 
is  reached.  The  imagination,  with  mahy  and  most 
complex  particulars,  accompanies  the  intuitive,  creative 
reason,  and  goes  before  the  executive  hand ; brings  the 
conception  to  its  birth  in  the  mind,  and  to  its  later  birth 
in  the  world  of  facts. 


LECTUEE  XII. 


ARCHITECTURE.— ITS  OBJECTS.  — AS  A FINE  ART.  — OFFICES. 
— SKILL.  — ORNAMENT.  — RESOURCES  OF  THE  ARCHITECT.  — 
MATERIALS.  — MEMBERS  : WALL,  APERTURES,  ROOF,  PITCH, 
DOME. 

In  passing  to  architecture,  we  come  yet  more  immedi- 
ately under  the  law  of  utility.  Use,  and  more  fre- 
quently a plain,  palpable,  physical  use,  gives  rise  to  the 
architectural  product.  Men  do  not  build  — do  not  wea- 
rily chisel  the  stone,  mix  the  mortar,  and  carry  the  hod 
— without  a most  distinct  and  recognizable  end.  They 
may,  indeed,  strive  to  do  their  work  well,  to  do  it  beau- 
fully,  but  this  beauty  is  only  the  manner  in  which,  and 
not  the  end  for  which,  they  do  it.  Beauty  does  not 
assign  ends,  but  only  methods  and  means  in  architec- 
ture. Men  do  not  say,  I will  build  beauty,  but  I will 
build  a beautiful  dwelling,  a beautiful  church.  In  the 
words  dwelling  and  church  are  contained  the  purpose 
of  the  work,  in  the.  adjective  beautiful  the  manner  of  its 
execution.  This  purpose  must  furnish  a direction  and 
end  to  action  before  any  opportunity,  any  material,  is 
given  in  whose  handling  beauty  may  show  her  power. 
The  sculptor  must  have  his  design  before  he  can  carve ; 
the  architect  must  have  his  task  before  he  can  realize 
a significant  execution. 

It  is  plain  that  means  can  never  rightly  interfere  with 
ends,  that  all  such  interference  betrays  a want  of  power 


KELATION  OF  BEAUTY  AND  UTILITY. 


183 


in  the  worker,  an  unconquered  obstinacy  and  inflexibil- 
ity in  the  material,  baffling  the  architect.  Means  that 
retard,  thwart,  or  modify  an  end  cease  to  be  means, 
and  by  so  much  cut  us  off  from  our  purposes.  The 
same  is  true  of  the  method,  the  manner,  in  which  an 
end  is  reached,  and  of  the  concomitants  of  that  end. 
These  are  each  subsidiary  to  the  end  itself.  If  we  are 
correct,  therefore,  in  affirming  that  beauty  is  a method, 
a manner,  a concomitant,  it  thence  follows  that  it  does 
not  govern  the  end,  but  is  itself  governed  by  that  end ; 
that  utility  in  architecture  assigns  a law  to  beauty  from 
which  it  may  not  depart ; and  that  any  such  departure, 
any,  the  slightest,  conflict  of  ornament  with  use  de- 
stroys beauty.  The  beauty  is  not  the  utility,  but  the 
significant,  the  thoughtful  and  emotional  manner  in 
which  that  utility  is  reached.  This  relation  of  utility 
and  beauty  must  be  distinctly  apprehended  for  the  right 
understanding  of  architecture.  We  shall  then  be  no 
longer  misled  by  detached  members,  isolated  beauties, 
by  portions  in  themselves  correct,  but  shall  judge  the 
whole  as  a whole,  in  its  relation  to  its  great  purpose, 
and  in  its  relation  to  each  of  its  constituents.  In  good 
architecture,  a single  end  will  be  seen,  sending  forth  its 
mandate  everywhere,  and  everywhere  securing  a cheer- 
ful and  perfect  obedience. 

Architecture,  as  a fine  art,  has  reference  to  man’s 
work,  and  is  dependent  for  its  power  on  the  success,  the 
excellency  of  that  work ; first,  as  exhibiting  thought, 
an  accurate,  vigorous,  and  grand  adaptation  of  means 
to  an  end  ; second,  as  exhibiting  feeling,  — the  pleasure 
with  which  the  mind  treats  the  forms  and  surfaces  of  its 
work,  striving  to  make  them  expressive  of  its  own  emo- 
tions. Architecture  exhibits  the  intellectual  and  emo- 


184 


LECTURE  XII. 


tional  resources  of  man,  and  this  is  its  beauty,  its  object 
as  a fine  art,  and  it  can  only  exist  as  a fine  art  as  and 
because  it  is  a useful  art.  The  breadth  and  success 
of  its  use  are  the  framework  of  its  beauty.  In  garden- 
ing, man  presents  the  work  of  God,  living  products, 
perfectly  and  highly  wrought  ; in  architecture,  he  pre- 
sents his  own  work,  his  power  over  material  in  itself 
now  more,  now  less  admirable.  In  the  oner  case,  the 
object  is  prominent ; in  the  other,  its  treatment.  In  the 
one  product,  we  see  how  God  works  ; in  the  other,  how 
man  works  with  that  which  God  gives  him.  The  scope  of 
architecture  in  the  realm  of  beauty  is  the  intellectual  and 
emotional  power  which  it  expresses  as  the  work  of  man. 

The  utilities  which  architecture  seeks  are  various, 
falling  with  moderate  accuracy  into  three  classes. 

Its  earliest  and  most  constant  end  is  protection. 
Buildings  for  protection  constitute  the  first  and  larger 
class  of  edifices.  Unsheltered  man  has  sought  shelter ; 
and  shelter  with  man  includes  the  gratification  of  many 
wants,  the  protection  and  nurture  of  a group  of  numerous 
instincts,  affections,  and  tastes.  The  dwelling  is  the  orb 
of  childhood,  the  nest,  the  nursery,  and  school  of  the 
human  callow : it  is  the  home  of  manhood,  its  centre 
of  exertion  and  enjoyment,  its  points  of  departure  and 
return  : it  is  the  repose  of  age ; thither,  weary  and 
spent,  it  turns  to  lay  down  its  burden.  Such  a retreat, 
lasting  and  manifold  in  its  offices,  will  gradually  build 
into  itself,  will  come  slowly  to  contain  all  fortunate  con- 
trivances, fine  adaptations,  and  strokes  of  feeling,  — the 
grand,  the  simple  and  the  emotional  conceptions  of  man. 
As  the  shell  of  the  snail  and  the  shield  of  the  turtle 
yield  to  the  included  life,  — shape  themselves  with  curi- 
ous skill  and  kind  provision  to  all  its  necessities,  so  the 


SHELTER.  — PASSAGE.  185 

home  of  man  in  its  forms  bespeaks  the  wants  and  wis- 
dom of  its  inmate,  the  ends  and  means  of  the  human 
worker,  and  records  in  bark  hut  or  solid  masonry  the 
growth  and  convolutions  of  rational  life. 

Architecture  commences  with  the  dwelling.  This  is 
the  first  labor  that  the  necessities  of  shelter  assign  to 
man.  There  immediately  follow  in  the  interests  of  com- 
merce other  forms  of  protective  edifices,  — the  shop, 
store,  factory,  warehouse,  custom-house,  bank,  and  ex- 
change ; in  the  interests  of  education,  the  school-house, 
academy,  seminary,  college,  observatory,  library,  public 
hall ; in  those  of  government,  the  prison,  fort,  court- 
house, legislative  hall ; and  in  those  of  religion,  the 
church,  cathedral,  temple.  This  department  of  protec- 
tive architecture  is  most  various  and  inclusive,  — from 
the  house  of  the  hermit,  to  the  hall  that  springs  its 
vaulted  roof  above  the  heads  of  thousands  ; from  the 
thin  thatch  that  turns  the  pattering  rain,  to  the  solid 
stone  and  stern  battlements  that  stand  amid  the  hail  of 
iron ; from  the  coy  arbor  flecking  the  sunshine,  to  the 
defiant  light-house,  sentinel  of  the  niglit-ocean,  baffling 
the  malignant  waves  with  a single,  persistent  truth. 

The  second  end  of  architecture,  giving  rise  to  an- 
other class  of  structures,  is  transit.  To  this  class 
belong  bridges,  aqueducts,  and  tunnels.  The  object 
here  is  to  give  passage,  sometimes  through,  sometimes 
over,  an  obstacle.  The  direct  effect  of  the  masonry 
is  support,  — the  path  lying  on  it  or  passing  under 
it ; in  the  one  case,  the  burden  being  that  of  the 
footman,  the  vehicle,  the  transmitted  water ; in  the 
other,  the  incumbent  earth  or  buildings. 

A third,  a monumental  class  of  structures,  are  the 
memorials  of  the  dead  and  of  historic  events.  Here, 


186 


LECTURE  XII. 


the  object  is  an  affectionate  remembrance  of  kindred 
and  friends,  or  a patriotic  remembrance  of  national 
events  and  heroes. 

In  each  of  these  classes,  the  character  and  outline 
of  the  work  are  determined  by  its  office,  and  precisely 
as  this  office  is  complete  and  explicit  in  its  demands 
will  it  control  all  the  details  of  form.  The  dwelling 
fulfils  a most  complex  end,  the  monument  a simple 
end.  The  form  of  the  first  is  therefore  more  per- 
fectly subjected  to  the  law  of  use  than  that  of  the 
second,  and  the  second  left  more  open  than  the  first 
.to  the  action  of  feeling.  , 

Architecture  becomes  a fine  art,  addresses  itself  to 
the  tastes  and  feelings  of  men,  through  the  thought- 
ful and  emotional  manner  in  which  the  particular 
objects  of  protection,  transit,  or  monition  are  reached. 
The  beauty,  then,  of  an  architectural  work  is  depend- 
ent on  two  particulars : the  thought  and  the  feeling 
evinced,  its  form  as  resulting  from  a duty  faithfully 
and  felicitously  fulfilled,  its  form  and  surfaces  as  sub- 
sidiarily affected  by  feeling.  The  first  is  skill,  mastery 
of  means ; the  second,  ornament. 

All  the  grander,  stronger  impressions  of  architec- 
ture are  due  to  the  first,  the  admirable  obedience  of 
matter  to  mind,  the  powerful  working  of  thought,  suc- 
cessful execution  following  in  the  steps  of  bold  con- 
ception, an  obvious  reconciliation  of  members  and 
concurrence  of  offices  in  one  leading  object.  With- 
out these,  ornament  becomes  trivial  and  nugatory.  In 
this  respect,  the  beauty  of  the  work  depends  on  the 
power  and  precision  of  the  thought.  By  its  power 
in  the  pursuit  of  any  end,  it  hits  on  the  right  rela- 
tion, combination,  or  form;  by  its  precision,  it  cuts 


ORNAMENT. 


187 


away  all  that  overlies  and  conceals  its  conception,  and 
reveals  this  right  combination  or  form  in  clear  out- 
line. It  equally  rejects  too  much  and  too  little,  and 
is  only  satisfied  when  its  entire  thought  is  made  visible 
in  distinct  contour.  Power  is  seen  in  the  arch,  and 
precision  in  the  care  with  which  it  is  cut  to,  without 
infringing  on,  the  curve  of  pressure,  thus  revealing 
the  line  of  force.  So,  too,  the  capital,  column,  and  base 
are  wrought  to  their  office,  and  have  every  exigency 
of  their  office  chiseled  into  the  lines  of  their  form. 
The  swell,  the  bevel,  the  taper  speak  of  the  adding 
of  needful,  or  the  cutting  away  of  superfluous  mate- 
rial. For  the  full  apprehension  of  this  class  of  beauties 
in  architecture,  we  must  know  the  duty  of  each  mem- 
ber in  the  variety  of  its  offices.  Thus  only  shall  we 
see  the  perfection  of  the  form  in  which  these  are  ex- 
pressed and  met. 

The  secondary  element  through  which  architecture 
becomes  a fine  art  is  ornament.  A large  number 
of  subsidiary  beauties  are  due  to  this.  The  leading 
end  does  not  so  definitively  rule  surfaces  or  the  de- 
tails of  form,  as  not  to  suffer  feeling,  within  certain 
limits,  to  work  upon  these,  and  redeem  them  from  a 
blankness  and  -poverty  into  which  they  would  otherwise 
fall.  Unoccupied  ground,  for  which  neither  thought, 
nor  feeling  have  done  anything,  unaffected  by  the  ex- 
igencies of  the  work  or  the  fancy  of  the  worker,  is 
unpleasant.  Ornament  enters  in  to  occupy  the  spaces 
as  yet  unoccupied  of  art,  to  shape  and  modify  form 
within  the  limits  of  use.  Ornament  is  not  for  this 
reason  extraneous  or  foreign  to  the  building.  It  twines 
itself  into  and  beautifies  the  framework  of  the  edifice, 
as  a vine  clings  to  an  arbor-lattice,  and  is  true  orna- 


188 


LECTURE  XII. 


ment  only  as  it  perfects  the  original  design.  Some* 
times  the  primary  end  will  include  more,  sometimes 
less,  of  this  its  rich  and  graceful  accompaniment,  and 
true,  chaste  ornamentation  will  ever  feel  and  respect 
the  limits  thus  assigned  it. 

Before  proceeding  to  speak  further  of  the  classes 
of  architecture,  we  need  to  understand  the  resources 
of  the  architect. 

His  standard  materials  are  three,  — stone,  brick,  wood, 
— to  which,  for  a variety  of  purposes,  a fourth  is  now 
added.  These  materials  are  by  no  means  equally  abun- 
dant or  good  in  all  localities.  Especially  are  the  best 
quarries  limited  in  their  range.  Stone  which  is  of  a 
uniform  texture,  firm,  yet  of  easy  cleavage,  pleasing 
in  color  and  capable  of  being  secured  in  large  blocks, 
is  comparatively  rare,  and  when  present  must  always 
exert  a powerful  influence  on  architecture.  Edifices 
like  those  of  Greece,  with  massive  lintels,  majestic  and 
smooth-chiseled  columns,  could  not  exist  in  less  favored 
regions.  Adjacent  rocks,  whether  gray  granite,  brown 
sandstone,  blue  limestone,  or  marble,  will  at  once  give 
character  to  the  architecture  of  a city  or  province. 
The  more  influential  considerations  in  the  stone  at 
the  disposal  of  the  artist  are  size,  hardness,  and  color. 
Stone  which  exists  only  in  fragments,  which  is  too 
flaky  to  be  quarried  in  solid  blocks,  precludes  some 
of  the  more  imposing  and  perfect  features  of  archi- 
tecture. The  face  and  columns  of  an  edifice  of  such 
material  must  present  the  roughness  of  rubble  com- 
post, instead  of  a firm,  homogeneous,  and  carefully 
wrought  surface.  Small  stones  are  inconsistent  with 
symmetry  and  lightness  of  form,  sharp  outline  and 
ornamental  carving,  and  will  sometimes  demand  a sur^ 


MATERIALS. 


189 


face  coat  of  mortar  by  which  the  true  character  of 
the  building  is  lost.  A very  hard  stone  discourages 
the  chisel,  and  lies  less  firmly  in  the  wall ; a very 
soft  stone  fails  to  retain  the  labor  expended  upon  it, 
and  both  renders,  and  seems  to  render,  the  edifice 
insecure.  A degree  of  hardness  which  leaves  the  stone 
susceptible  to  the  workman’s  thought,  and,  at  the  same 
time  retentive  of  it,  must  ever  be  influential  on  the 
character  of  the  work,  especially  on  its  ornament. 

In  the  colors  of  stone  there  is  certainly  a choice, 
but  more  important  in  color  than  original  shade  are 
uniformity  and  durability.  Stones  of  a mixed  char- 
acter and  changeable  color  greatly  detract  from  the 
effect.  In  some  climates  at  least  the  purest  marble 
seems  less  appropriate  than  granite  or  sandstone  for 
out-door  work,  as  too  little  suited  to  escape  the  soil 
and  stain  of  the  elements.  The  sober  gray  of  solid 
granite  is  well  fitted  for  the  harsh  seaboard  of  New 
England.  Upon  this  original  character  and  the  par- 
ticular office  of  the  stone  will  depend  the  propriety 
of  a rough  or  smooth  finish.  The  coarse-grained 
stones,  made  to  face  the  storms,  are  often  left  to  ad- 
vantage in  their  fresh  native  cleavage,  the  chiseled 
edges  alone  marking  the  attention  and  care  of  the 
workman.  There  are  a certain  boldness  and  rapidity 
of  workmanship  in  these  rough  Titan  blocks,  a distin- 
guishing between  what  is  necessary  and  what  may  be 
dispensed  with,  that  often  render  the  effect  most  pleas- 
ing. Stones  from  their  texture  capable  of  a perfect  pol- 
ish, or  somewhat  more  sheltered  in  the  position  assigned 
them,  or  bearing  ornament,  demand  a careful  finish. 

Brick,  as  a material  of  the  artist,  is  greatly  inferior 
to  stone,  entirely  precludes  carving,  requires  a cornice 


190 


LECTURE  XII. 


and  column  wholly  its  own,  and,  though  not  incapable 
of  reaching  considerable  excellence,  must  ever  be  en- 
tirely inadequate  for  the  best  work. 

Small  buildings  suffer  less  than  large  buildings  from 
this  material.  The  dwelling  with  no  broad  surfaces  and 
with  considerable  variety  of  outline,  may  employ  it  to 
advantage.  It  deserves  to  be  questioned,  whether  the 
prevalent  method  of  pencilling,  by  which  each  brick  is 
carefully  distinguished,  is  not  a vicious  treatment  draw- 
ing attention  to  the  tale  of  brick  rather  than  over- 
coming their  inherent  difficulty,  their  too  great  divisi- 
bility, and  uniting  them  in  a uniform  surface. 

The  fact,  that  paint  both  for  mechanical  and  aestheti- 
cal  reasons  is  rightly  applied  to  brick,  testifies  to  their 
inherent  weakness. 

Wood,  as  the  framework  and  outside  of  a building, 
has  as  advantages,  the  facility  with  which  it  receives 
form,  and  renders  a smooth  surface,  and  usually  its 
cheapness ; as  disadvantages,  its  deficiency  in  strength, 
durability,  and  for  some  climates  at  least,  in  protection. 

These  defects  are  less  serious  in  small  buildings  than 
in  large,  and,  while  wood  can  never  dispute  the  field 
with  stone  in  any  important  work,  it  may  often  dis- 
place brick  in  dwellings  and  more  transient  structures. 
Wood  in  outside  work  requires  paint,  but  certainly  not 
that  white  paint  which,  in  full  light,  is  to  the  eye 
the  most  painful  and  glaring  of  colors,  and  finds  no 
sympathy  in  nature,  unless  it  be  in  the  chaste  shroud 
of  the  buried  year,  in  winter,  the  tomb  of  living  beauty. 

In  cities,  iron  begins  to  occupy  ground  once  pos- 
sessed by  brick  and  stone,  with  this  loss,  that  it  makes 
the  most  elaborate  architecture  relatively  cheap  and 
contemptible.  Capitals  and  cornice,  cast  by  a pattern, 


IRON. 


191 


ceasing  to  have  the  feeling,  will  cease  to  have  the  valuo 
which  attaches  to  the  product  of  the  chisel.  There 
must  be  a certain  amount  of  personality  back  of  even 
the  best  work  to  sustain  its  value.  Flowers  which  ex- 
actly repeated  each  other  would  lose  our  sympathy. 
Buildings  succeeding  each  other  in  mechanical  exact- 
ness of  imitation  divide  and  subdivide,  and  finally  de- 
stroy, our  interest.  A hundred  thousand  engravings 
cannot  each  have  at  their  disposal  the  power  of  the 
first  painting,  but  only  some  remote  fraction  of  it. 
Every  impression  which  falls  from  the  plate  places  us 
one  remove  further  from  the  centre  of  interest  and 
art,  the  mind  of  the  worker.  This  principle  must 
and  will  be  regarded  in  architecture.  That  which  is 
wrought  in  stone  with  freedom  and  freshness  of  thought 
will  strive  in  pattern  and  outline  to  distinguish  itself 
from,  and  to  assert  its  superiority  over,  the  now  vulgar 
herd  of  ornaments  which  have  but  one  thought  for 
a thousand,  and  multiply  themselves  with  less  care 
and  variety  than  pebbles  on  a beach. 

When  we  pass  to  the  material  of  inside  architec- 
ture, the  variety  is  greater,  though  the  pre-eminence 
still  remains  with  wood  and  stone,  this  difference  only 
being  marked,  that  wood  has  now  more  extensive, 
numerous,  and  striking  adaptations  than  stone.  The 
many  varieties  of  wood  present  themselves  in  the  na- 
tive beauty  of  their  internal  structure  in  all  richer 
work,  no  longer  requiring  the  protection  or  suffering 
the  disguise  of  paints.  The  lightness,  toughness,  elas- 
ticity, and  warmth  of  wood,  the  ease  with  which  it  is 
worked,  and  the  beauty  of  its  veining,  give  it  for 
many  purpose  a fitness r a natural  superiority  over  the 
colder  and  less  tractable  marbles  and  metals.  Elabo- 


192 


LECTURE  XII. 


rate  work  in  ivory  and  the  precious  metals  owes  the 
esteem  in  which  it  is  held  quite  as  much  to  superior 
cost  as  to  superior  beauty.  In  the  less  costly,  though 
not  the  less  dear  and  influential,  architecture  of  the 
home,  paints,  papers,  and  plaster  must  find  admission 
as  the  cheap  pliant  materials  of  taste,  and  from  an 
honest  yet  skilful  handling  may  receive  no  small  share 
of  value. 

The  final  constituents  of  the  building  are  the  mate- 
rials now  spoken  of;  but  there  is  also  a subdivision 
of  the  building  itself  into  certain  parts  or  members, 
which  are  to  be  treated  separately,  and  which  present 
distinct  problems  to  the  architect.  The  more  distinct 
and  important  of  these  demand  separate  mention. 

First  is  the  wall.  This  has  several  members,  the 
broad  foot  or  base  partly  hidden  in  the  soil  by  which  it 
connects  itself  with,  and  firmly  rests  upon,  the  ground ; 
the  vail,  or  wall  proper,  which,  reduced  in  thickness, 
rests  on  this  base ; and  the  cornice  or  top  of  the  wall 
which,  with  its  broad  surface,  receives  and  evenly  dif- 
fuses the  weight  of  the  roof,  and  with  its  projecting 
mouldings  sheds  the  water.  The  base  and  the  cor- 
nice, the  one  in  its  retreat,  the  other  in  its  projection, 
present  prominent  features  for  outline  and  ornament. 
The  wall  is  usually  sought  both  for  shelter  and  sup- 
port ; it  may  have  the  latter  office  only.  In  that  case, 
the  wall-vail  is  rolled  as  it  were  into  a series  of  col- 
umns, their  capitals  and  bases  even  more  distinct  and 
carefully  treated  than  in  the  wall. 

With  no  especial  philosophy  or  correctness,  architec- 
ture has  been  divided  by  the  character  of  the  capital 
which  these  columns  have  received.  The  several  capi- 
tals are  not  so  distinct  or  so  controlling  features  of 


THE  WALL. 


193 


architecture  as  to  claim  the  position  assigned  them 
in  this  classification.  The  wall-vail  perpetually  tends 
to  blank  surfaces.  These,  aside  from  ornament,  are 
broken  in  several  ways.  The  building  may  divide 
itself  into  stories,  — into  distinct  strata  by  a band  of 
new  and  more  firm  material.  This  will  most  readily 
occur  in  a building  of  brick  by  the  insertion  of  a layer 
of  broad,  uniform  stone.  The  wall  may  strengthen 
itself  by  half-merged  columns  or  pilasters,  and  thus 
reach  the  required  end  with  an  economy  of  material 
and  change  of  surface.  The  wall  may  support  itself 
against  the  lateral  thrust  of  the  roof  by  a tower  or 
by  a buttress.  But  that  which  more  than  anything 
else  relieves  the  wall  are  the  apertures  for  the  ad- 
mission of  persons  and  of  light.  The  door-way  is  a 
leading  feature  in  any  building.  With  its  deep  and 

broad  recess,  open  jambs,  arch-head,  and  folding  leaves, 
the  favorite  seat  of  ornament ; or  with  its  single  leaf 
and  straight  contour,  it  is  at  once  sought  by  the  eye. 
The  greater  the  surface  of  wall,  the  larger,  more  im- 
posing and  beautiful  should  be  the  entrance,  from  the 
increased  dignity  of  its  office,  from  the  relief  it  fur- 
nishes the  eye,  and  from  the  interpretation  which  it 
gives  to  the  mind  of  the  purpose  of  the  edifice.  Or- 
dinary entrances  to  great  buildings  at  once  reduce 
them  in  character. 

As  far  as  size  is  concerned,  the  same  is  true,  in  a 
somewhat  less  degree,  of  apertures  for  the  admission 
of  light.  These,  as  more  numerous  and  secondary  in 
office,  though  less  important  members  of  the  building 
than  the  door-ways,  are  yet  the  principal  feature  of 
the  side  walls,  and  thus  require  the  chief  attention. 
They  are  liable  to  lose  their  value  from  barrenness 


M 


194 


LECTURE  XII. 


of  form,  and  monotonous  repetition.  A wall-vail  with 
square  apertures  at  fixed  intervals  is  scarcely  less 
blank  than  when  unpierced.  These  disadvantages  are 
often  needlessly  incurred,  often  directly  sought  after. 
The  square,  plain  lintel  is  preferred  to  the  carved  and 
,,  arched  lintel,  an  irregular  or  triangular  space  is  occu- 
pied by  a square  aperture,  small  windows  are  inserted 
at  short  intervals,  without  reference  to  use,  and  even 
against  use,  as  if  the  first  axiom  of  architecture  were 
the  greatest  number  of  windows  in  the  most  regular 
ranks,  with  the  least  in  each  of  individual  value. 
Windows  that  stand  in  precisely  the  same  relations 
cannot,  indeed,  be  readily  varied  in  form,  but  the  value 
of  each  should  be  made  as  great  as  possible,  their  num- 
ber reduced,  and,  with  each  change  of  relation,  as  in 
passing  from  story  to  story,  or  from  a broad  surface 
to  one  restricted  in  extent,  or  irregular  in  outline,  the 
contour  should  be  varied.  Correct  taste  will  quickly 
show  its  growth  in  the  treatment  of  windows,  thrust- 
ing aside  the  much  sought  after  uniformity,  and  giving 
to  each  window  or  rank  of  windows  its  own  duty  and 
character.  They  can  only  thus  become  interesting 
features,  relieving  the  wall  of  which  they  form  a part. 

In  the  wall,  as  adjuncts,  are  included  the  base,  the 
cornice,  the  capital,  the  column,  the  band,  the  pilaster, 
the  buttress,  the  turret,  the  door,  and  the  window,  with 
their  arch-heads,  jambs,  and  lintels. 

The  second  leading  member  of  the  edifice  is  the 
roof.  Though  quite  separable  in  office,  and  usually 
in  form,  we  shall  treat  under  this  term  the  covering 
of  the  passage-way  and  of  the  enclosure.  The  passage- 
way is  roofed  for  support,  the  enclosure  for  shelter. 

The  space-way  of  the  door  and  of  the  window  must 


ROOF. 


195 


be  spanned,  in  order  that  the  wall  may  proceed  above 
it.  The  piers  of  the  bridge  must  be  united,  that  the 
stream  may  find  passage  beneath,  and  the  travel  flow 
on  above,  the  two  currents  interwoven,  but  unobstructed. 
The  tunnel  arched  in  the  loose  soil  gives  transit  with- 
out removing  the  obstacle.  In  these  and  similar  cases, 
the  passage-way  may  be  regarded  as  an  aperture  in  a 
a wall  of  greater  or  less  thickness,  and  the  question 
to  be,  How  shall  the  strength  of  the  wall  be  main- 
tained, the  portions  above  finding  adequate  support  ? 
The  most  simple  method,  as  in  the  door-way  or  the 
culvert,  is  to  pass  a timber  or  a flat  stone  of  ade- 
quate dimensions  from  side  to  side.  The  cornices  of 
the  Greek  porches  and  colonnades  were  so  supported, 
resting  on  the  capitals,  and  sustained  in  the  intervals 
by  the  tenacity  of  the  material.  This  method,  though 
simple,  has  in  all  work  of  brick  and  stone,  where  the 
weight  is  great,  most  serious  difficulties.  It  demands 
the  most  favorable  material,  taxes  the  strength  of  that 
material  to  the  utmost,  is  unable  safely  to  span  a 
broad  passage,  and  substitutes  a barren  straight  line 
for  the  most  pleasing  curves. 

The  arch,  once  discovered,  by  its  superior  aptness 
largely  displaced  the  flat  lintel  where  either  strength 
or  beauty  were  desired.  It  is  only  minor  passage- 
ways, bearing  no  great  burden,  in  which  this  weak 
and  barren  form  is  oftenest  used.  To  the  windows 
and  door-ways  of  wooden  edifices,  the  consideration 
of  strength  real  or  apparent  does  not  apply,  but  only 
that  of  beauty.  There  will  be  freedom  and  variety  in 
the  curve  of  the  arch  in  proportion  as  the  pressure 
relaxes.  As  this  increases,  the  arch  will  bow  itself 
to  the  burden,  and  approximate  the  curve  of  great- 


196 


LECTURE  XII. 


est  strength.  The  wise  artist  will  strive  not  to  con- 
ceal, but  to  reveal  in  the  contour  of  the  included 
aperture  the  character  of  the  duty  which  the  arch  is 
performing,  cutting  close  to  the  curve  of  pressure  when 
this  is  stringent  and  severe.  The  arch  is  frequently 
limited  in  the  height  to  which  it  may  rise.  It  may 
strike,  as  over  the  window,  into  a high  and  sharp 
point,  or,  as  in  spanning  the  river,  it  may  be  com- 
pelled to  lie  low  and  broad  in  a flat  arc,  dipping  in 
its  transit  like  an  aquatic  bird  close  to  the  water. 
The  number  of  the  offices  which  the  arch  can  per- 
form, and  the  ease  and  variety  of  the  methods  in  which 
it  meets  them  all,  impart  to  it  great  beauty.  The 
forms  which  it  assumes  are  thoroughly  thoughtful, 
and  may  well,  therefore,  be  beautiful. 

It  is  the  generic  office  of  an  arch  to  bear  a burden. 
It  is  this  very  burden  which  consolidates  and  strength- 
ens it,  and  enables  the  piers  and  abutments  to  endure 
its  side  thrust.  It  is  not  for  this  reason  so  well  fitted 
for  mere  shelter.  The  high  thin  walls  which  sustain 
the  roof  of  a building  must,  as  far  as  possible,  be 
relieved  from  all  lateral  pressure,  and  an  arch  resting 
upon  these  without  strong  and  low  girders  would  re- 
sult in  their  immediate  overthrow.  The  roofs  of  en- 
closures therefore  are  so  constructed  as  to  reduce  all 
pressure  to  vertical  lines,  to  the  mere  support  of  their 
own  weight.  This  is  more  especially  necessary  in 
large  buildings, — in  buildings  of  stone  and  brick  where 
the  opposing  walls  are  less  perfectly  girded  to  each 
other.  Flat  roofs  supported  by  the  walls  and  included 
partitions- have  no  architectural  interest,  and  will  only 
exist  in  cities,  where  the  roof  of  the  dwelling  is  un- 
seen ; in  countries  where  the  roof  is  the  resort  of  the 


PITCH  OF  ROOF. 


197 


inmates  ; and  in  buildings  in  one  feature  at  least  with- 
out architectural  claims.  In  most  buildings  which 
stand  independent,  the  roof  not  only  diverts  the  storms, 
but  incloses  a valuable  space,  — is  not  a mere  floor 
laid  flatly  on  to  cover  an  open  top,  but  an  expressive 
and  completing  member  of  manifold  offices.  These 
roofs  in  their  most  simple  forms  are  composed  of 
two  planes  — in  their  more  complex  forms  they  con- 
tain no  new  principle  — inclined  against  each  other, 
which  by  action  in  exactly  opposite  directions,  neutral- 
ize each  in  each,  through  interior  connections,  every 
other  pressure  but  that  of  weight,  and  rest  as  one 
integral  burden  on  the  side  walls,  or  on  those  interior 
supports  which  the  purposes  of  the  building  may  suffer 
it  to  render.  Such  roofs  present,  without,  broad  sur- 
faces and  high  gables,  and  within,  the  deep  recesses 
of  nave  and  transept.  These  vaulted  ceilings  — in  the 
large  spaces  they  give,  in  the  grand,  airy  way  in  which 
they  perform  their  office,  in  the  suggestions  which 
they  furnish  in  their  complicated  lines  and  interlacing 
timbers  of  mechanical  skill  and  power,  and  in  the 
many  points  which  they  present  for  ornament  — are 
favorite  and  noble  features  in  architecture. 

In  the  expression  of  a roof,  its  pitch,  the  eaves,  the 
tile,  the  balustrade,  and  chimneys,  are  the  salient  points. 
A steep  pitch  is  connected  with  a severe  and  rugged 
climate,  both  historically  and  through  its  greater  ability 
to  shed  the  snow  and  hail  of  a bleak  region.  The 
sharp  angles  of  such  a structure  give  it  a more  bold 
and  defiant  appearance,  and  the  resulting  extent  of 
roof  surface  perpetually  reminds  one  of  the  important 
office  this  member  discharges.  A flat  roof,  on  the 
other  hand,  lies  more  concealed,  sinking  with  the  mild- 


198 


LECTURE  XII. 


ness  of  the  climate  into  a secondary  office  and  from 
under  vision. 

Entirely  in  harmony  with  this,  the  low  roof  fre- 
quently receives  a balustrade  whose  vertical  surface 
conceals  it,  and  presents  a more  pleasing  object  than 
a plane  lying  so  nearly  edgewise  to  the  eye.  The 
steep  roof,  on  the  other  hand,  takes  various  colored, 
ornamental,  diamond,  or  crested  tile,  and  then  ven- 
tures to  lift  itself,  an  unbroken  plane  to  the  eye,  or 
with  here  and  there  a gable.  The  chimney  also  becomes 
a more  conspicuous  and  hence  more  important  object 
in  the  steep  than  in  the  flat  roof.  Projecting  eaves, 
though  not  necessarily  confined  to  either  style  of  roof, 
are  more  frequently  associated  with  the  sharp  angle. 
Such  eaves  then  leave  at  the  top  of  the  wall  deep, 
sheltered,  and  shady  recesses,  dispensing  with  cornice 
and  removing  ornament  to  the  roof-edge,  and  in  the 
gables  to  the  verge-board.  The  flat  roof  with  pro- 
jecting eaves  opens  up  these  recesses,  and  prepares 
the  way  for  showy  brackets.  A broad,  heavy,  Grecian 
cornice  demands  a large  building  with  a flat  roof  and 
slight  projection.  The  massive  stone-work  of  our  larger 
public  edifices  prepares  the  way  for  this  form  of  cov- 
ering. 

The  dome,  akin  in  effect  to  the  vaulted  roof,  is  also 
nearly  allied  to  the  arch.  A section  of  the  arch  re- 
volved around  the  crown-point  gives  the  dome.  In 
the  dome,  the  height  of  the  arch,  the  smallness  of 
the  burden,  and  strength  of  material,  reduce  the 
lateral  thrust,  and  no  work  in  architecture  expresses 
greater  airiness,  lightness,  and  facility  of  position.  The 
roof  includes  among  its  adjuncts,  the  balustrade,  gable, 
spire,  and  dome. 


LECTURE  XIII. 

ARCHITECTURE.  — PROTECTIVE  ARCHITECTURE  : DWELLING, 

FARM-HOUSE,  COTTAGE,  VILLA,  CHURCHES.  — CHARACTER. 

— PUBLIC  BUILDINGS. 

Having  seen  both  the  material  at  the  disposal  of 
the  architect,  and  the  prominent  members  into  which 
this  is  first  combined,  we  may  better  understand  some 
of  the  leading  aesthetical  ends  to  be  reached  in  the 
several  classes  of  architecture.  These  are  incidental 
to  a complete  fulfilment  of  the  purpose,  with  its  numer- 
ous specifications,  for  which  the  building  is,  or  should 
be  erected.  In  protective  architecture,  we  shall  only 
refer  to  three  of  its  more  important  kinds  of  struc- 
ture, dwellings,  churches,  and  public  buildings. 

Dwellings,  though  not  giving  opportunity  for  the 
highest  architecture,  are,  nevertheless,  through  their 
greater  number  and  their  immediate  connection  with 
the  daily  wants  and  feelings  of  all  men,  a most  in- 
teresting class  of  structures.  The  taste  of  a people 
is  more  indicated  and  trained  by  these  than  by  any 
other  buildings.  As  the  dwelling  expresses  and  ful- 
fils the  wants  of  a single  family,  good  taste  here  pre- 
cludes arrogance  and  parade,  on  the  principle  before 
presented  in  landscape  gardening.  The  real  wants  of 
the  family  are  in  themselves  limited.  Too  much  has 
in  it  something  of  the  same  embarrassment  as  too 
little.  Extravagant  dimensions  and  elaborate  orna- 


200 


LECTURE  XIII. 


ment  bespeak  an  expenditure  utterly  uncalled  for  by 
the  end  to  be  reached  ; worse  than  this,  in  a world 
yet  full  of  hovels,  it  speaks  of  an  eager,  selfish  glut- 
tony of  enjoyments,  a willingness  to  waste  on  cumber- 
some and  awkward  luxuries  the  wealth  plucked  from 
a famishing  world  ; it  stands  in  flat  contradiction  to 
the  true  democratic  spirit  and  equality  of  men.  The 
Christian  citizen  sinks  into  a cunning  and  ravenous 
though  tasteful  creature  gathering  into  his  own  lair 
the  most  possible  of  prey.  The  building  which  repre- 
sents character,  moral  purpose,  and  principle,  the  beau- 
tiful building,  will  always  show  a tacit  submission  of 
private  pleasures  to  the  public  good,  — a modest  ap- 
preciation of  one’s  self  when  weighed  with  a world. 
A baronial  mansion  implies  superior  rights,  deep-seated 
hereditary  inequalities.  The  mind  that  really  believes 
in,  and  delights  in  man,  will  find  slight  compensa- 
tion for  the  beauty  which  should  attach  itself  to  every 
home,  in  the  magnificent  residence  of  some  lordling. 
That  which  rightly  belongs  to  industry  and  intelli- 
gence is  essentially  the  same  for  all.  The  dwelling 
which  shows  the  lavish  prodigality  of  fortune  toward 
a favorite  teaches  the  immorality  of  chance  govern- 
ment and  of  irresponsible  expenditure.  The  dwelling 
which  shows  what  skill  and  taste  can  do  with  or- 
dinary resources  exhibits  the  beneficence  of  God,  and 
the  grateful  appreciation  of  man,  and,  no  longer  the 
despair  of  poverty,  becomes  to  all  the  stimulus  of 
hopeful  exertion. 

The  style  of  good  domestic  architecture  will  natu- 
rally distinguish  itself  from  that  .of  public  buildings 
in  the  material  employed,  the  size  and  adaptations  of 
the  edifice,  and  in  the  expenditure  for  which  it  pro- 


DWELLINGS. 


201 


vides.  Obvious  as  is  this  principle,  it  has  been  largely 
overlooked  in  this  country,  and  one  of  the  most  in- 
appropriate of  styles  for  domestic  purposes  has  been 
more  frequently  than  any  other  employed  in  our 
dwellings. 

A heavy  Grecian  cornice  is  habitual  with  us,  and 
massive  Grecian  columns  not  unfrequent.  The  largest 
marble  temples  find  their  absurd  imitation  in  the  pine 
dwelling,  a most  complete  and  unthinking  oversight 
of  the  expression  and  proprieties  of  the  Grecian  style. 

Domestic  architecture  admits  of  much  variety,  but  in 
all  forms  — its  bracketted  and  Gothic,  northern  and 
southern  — it  should  recognize  the  quiet  simplicity  of 
its  purpose,  the  lightness  and  cheapness  of  its  mate- 
rial, and  be  cautious  of  borrowing  from  more  dignified 
and  imposing  buildings. 

The  first  exertion  of  taste  results  in  uniformity, — 
the  careful  repetition  of  single  forms,  through  a rec- 
tangular building,  — this  barren  order  the  mind  first 
opposes  to  disorder.  This  result  is  strictly  insipient; 
the  taste  at  once  wearies  of  it,  and  substitutes  regu- 
larity, — a careful  correspondence  of  opposite  members. 
This  it  may  take  with  it  into  many  of  its  noblest 
works.  Regularity,  by  which  the  building  can  be  di- 
vided into  two  halves,  each  the  counterpart  of  the 
other,  may  admit  great  variety,  and,  in  the  larger 
edifices,  where  the  number  of  members  is  in  itself 
great,  may  serve  to  give  a noble  unity  and  power  to 
the  work.  In  the  dwelling,  however,  where  the  parts 
are  few,  it  stands  but  a single  step  in  advance  of 
uniformity,  and  is  frequently  displaced  by  symmetry. 
Downing  defines  this  as  that  balance  of  opposite  parts 
necessary  to  form  an  agreeable  whole,  but  includes  in 
9* 


202 


LECTUKE  Xm. 


it  much  we  have  assigned  to  regularity.  A symmetri- 
cal building  is  balanced  about  a centre,  or  central 
plane,  not  by  the  exact  correspondence  of  opposite  mem- 
bers, but  by  a general  equality  of  weight  and  power. 
With  these  definitions,  the  human  form  is  regular ; 
the  well-formed  tree  is  symmetrical.  Regularity,  in 
its  somewhat  sterner  rule,  may  exist  in  the  highest 
work,  and  does  not  altogether  lose  its  power  when 
it  becomes  the  balancing  of  a few  simple  members. 
When  regularity,  either  through  the  fewness  or  weak- 
ness of  the  parts,  or  through  the  want  of  any  adequate 
reason  for  its  somewhat  mechanical  arrangement,  be- 
comes barren,  it  may  with  advantage  be  displaced  by 
symmetry.  The  purposes  of  domestic  architecture  re- 
quire no  exact  balance  of  parts ; indeed,  more  fre- 
quently they  assign  a new  office,  and  hence  a distinct 
form,  to  each  distinct  part. 

As  the  edifice  presents  vertical  and  horizontal  lines 
in  constant  contrast,  and  as  the  length  of  these  in  any 
given  relation  is  not  a matter  of  accident,  but  to  be 
carefully  determined  by  the  purpose  which  unites  them, 
there  arises  a demand  for  proportion.  This  we  appre- 
hend means  no  absolute  relation  of  numbers  to  each 
other,  implies  no  intrinsic  agreement  between  dimen- 
sions, but  rests  solely  on  a right  choice  of  length  and 
breadth  adapted  to  the  particular  end  in  view. 

A dwelling  will  have  beauty  in  proportion  as  it  has 
character,  and  character  is  here  an  expression  in  all  its 
forms,  its  adaptations  of  thought  and  feeling.  The 
dwelling  should  not  disguise  itself  under  a false  or  a 
stereotyped  form,  but  seek  to  be  vocal,  — to  utter  all  its 
immediate  purposes  and  relations.  In  obedience  to  this 
radical  necessity  of  expression,  — 


COTTAGE.  — VILLA. 


203 


( a .)  The  domestic  edifice  shows  what  it  is,  — a dwell- 
ing or  a barn. 

(6.)  It  shows  what  kind  of  a dwelling  it  is,  — a farm- 
house, a cottage,  a villa. 

Country  houses  possess  a great  advantage  over  city 
houses.  Their  architecture  is  not  reduced  to  a single 
surface : they  have  four  instead  of  one  or  two  sides. 
They  are  not  compelled,  through  want  of  land,  to  spin- 
dle up  into  the  air,  but  may  occupy  what  space  they 
choose.  They  have  roofs,  and  not  merely  another  floor. 
But  country  residences,  as  between  themselves,  have  dis- 
tinct objects.  A farm-house  has  occasion  to  accommo- 
date many  and  peculiar  domestic  operations.  This  fact 
it  will  take  no  pains  to  conceal,  but  will  spread  itself 
broadly  on  the  ground,  since  the  lower  stopy  is  chiefly 
useful  to  it,  and  it  possesses  the  land.  The  farmer’s 
table  is  marked  by  its  homely  and  abundant  fare ; his 
dwelling,  by  its  many  conveniences  for  various  forms  of 
domestic  labor,  and  by  its  rural  comforts. 

The  cottage  — a term  of  vague  application,  but  chiefly 
dependent  on  size,  designating  dwellings  of  moderate 
dimensions  and  vaguely  involving  some  notion  of  taste 
— is  in  the  country  the  house  of  men  of  limited  means, 
whether  of  a mechanical  or  professional  calling.  It 
primarily  provides  for  domestic  wants,  with  a somewhat 
sparing  recognition  in  the  parlor  of  social  enjoyments. 
It  differs  from  the  farm-house  in  making  no  provision 
for  the  production  of  any  form  of  food,  but  only  for  its 
preparation  for  the  table  when  furnished.  These  are 
the  houses  which  belong  to  our  villages,  with  a slim 
retinue  of  out-buildings,  and  an  increasing  height  and 
value  to  the  second  story. 

The  villa  designates  a mansion,  a larger  form  of 


204 


LECTUEE  Xm. 


dwelling,  and  is  usually  in  this  country  the  home  of  the 
wealthy.  Here  the  abuse  of  wealth  commences,  and  yet 
there  is  a field  which  both  taste  and  morals  should  be 
glad  to  recognize.  The  villa,  so  far  as  it  is  not  the  osten- 
tatious effervescence  of  wealth,  makes  broader  provision 
than  the  cottage  for  intellectual  and  social  wants.  The 
library,  the  drawing-room,  and  the  tower  become  dis- 
tinct features,  and  enjoyment  gains  ground  upon  simple 
living  and  labor.  If  this  takes  place  to  the  exclusion  of 
labor,  a subordinate  is  reached  in  the  destruction  of  a 
primary  end.  None  can  doubt  that  life  may  be  rightly 
unfolded  on  its  social  and  literary  side,  always  providing 
that  it  falls  not  thereby  into  a vicious  though  fashion- 
able indolence,  into  a useless  though  costly  dilettante- 
ism.  These  social  forms  of  life,  as  shown  in  the  dwell- 
ing, give  it  character,  — enrich  it  by  the  manifold  func- 
tions which  it  is  seen  to  perform. 

(c.)  The  dwelling  should  also  receive  character  from- 
its  position,  the  objects  in  nature  which  surround  it. 
In  a warm  climate  and  broad,  sunny  plains,  it  may  be 
less  compact,  less  sharp  and  angular,  than  in  a rugged, 
mountainous  region ; may  have  more  light,  ample,  and 
numerous  verandas,  and  lie  in  the  cool  shade  of  decidu- 
ous trees.  The  home  commanding  valuable  scenery 
will  make  provision,  in  tower,  balcony,  or  veranda,  for 
its  enjoyment,  and,  occupying  beautiful  grounds,  will 
have  retired  windows  and  sallying-points  whence  the 
inmates  may  go  forth. 

(d)  Another  source  of  character  in  the  dwelling  is 
the  transferred  character  of  the  inmate.  Unfortunately 
the  building  more  often  suffers  from  this  than  is  bene- 
fited by  it,  and  in  no  way  more  frequently  than  by  an 
ambitious  attempt  to  secure  architectural  effect  without 


HONESTY.  — VARIETY. 


205 


adequate  resources, — to  transfer  features  that  only 
appropriately  belong  to  more  costly  work  in  a modified 
and  flimsy  form  to  cheaper  material.  The  cottage  thus 
loses  the  honest  simplicity?  the  expression  of  homely 
comfort  and  self-respect,  which  belongs  to  it,  and  is 
made  up  of  mean  imitations,  showing  on  the  one  side 
a foolish  envy,  on  the  other  a foolish  vanity. 

If,  however,  honesty  and  simplicity  characterize  the 
builder,  the  building  will  often  be  favorably  effected  by 
the  precise  phase  of  his  desires.  Scarcely  do  any  two 
families  wish  the  same  internal  arrangement,  the  same 
variety  and  order  of  apartments,  and  with  each  new 
combination  of  wants  there  will  appropriately  and  nat- 
urally be  present  a modified  form.  It  is  the  province  of 
every  good  artist,  within  the  flexible  arrangements  of 
the  given  style  of  architecture,  to  express  these  individ- 
ual types  of  social  life.  Nothing  so  intimately  related 
to  the  family  as  the  dwelling  can  rightly  fail  to  receive 
form  and  character  from  it.  All  strong,  rational  life 
inevitably  affects  its  instruments. 

The  true  home,  in  the  multiplicity  of  its  offices,  has  a 
law  for  every  part,  an  expression  for  every  member,  and 
if  it  falls  short  in  the  dignity  of  any  one  of  these,  it 
finds  ample  compensation  in  their  variety  and  aggregate 
importance.  Nor  is  the  inside  of  the  dwelling  less  fruit- 
ful in  sources  of  character.  Each  room  has  a distinct 
object,  and  therein  the  basis  of  distinct  treatment.  No 
building,  therefore,  may  be  more  individual,  full,  and 
human  in  its  character  than  the  dwelling,  — the  lodge- 
ment of  thoughtful,  emotional  man. 

Another  most  important  and  distinct  class  of  build- 
ings in  protective  architecture  are  those  connected  with 
religion.  Many  of  the  most  costly  and  splendid  edifices 


206 


LECTURE  XIII. 


of  all  nations  and  countries  have  owed  their  origin  to 
religion,  and  have  been  connected  with  worship.  It  is 
evident,  that  these  edifices  will  receive  character  from 
the  immediate  purpose  they  are  intended  to  subserve, — 
from  the  religion  with  which  they  stand  connected  and 
from  national  traits.  A religion  that  receives  its  form 
from  solemn  ritual  and  costly  ceremonial  — which  ex- 
presses its  estimate  of  worship  in  visible  gifts  and  man- 
ual work — -will  put  forth  its  strength,  ingenuity,  and 
feeling  to  rear  a temple,  or  temples,  adorned  with  all  that 
the  most  expensive  architecture  can  confer.  In  such  a 
faith,  the  temple  is  the  emblem,  the  embodiment  of 
worship,  and  as  such  must  withhold  nothing  which  an 
aroused  heart  and  free  hand  can  give.  So  stood  the 
Jewish  temple,  in  its  rich  magnificence  a religious  work, 
reverence  and  faith  transmuted  into  stone  and  the  pre- 
cious metals.  On  the  other  hand,  as  a religion  forsakes 
the  visible  for  the  invisible,  the  formal  for  the  spiritual, 
its  edifices  sink  from  the  necessities  of  worship  to  the 
conveniences  of  worship,  from  direct  religious  gifts  to 
God,  carrying  the  heart  over  in  actual  recognition  and 
adoration,  to  an  antecedent  preparation,  having  its  end, 
not  in  worship,  but  in  the  wants  of  worshippers.  Such 
are  Christian  churches.  They  do  not  embody  the  wor- 
ship of  those  who  worship  in  them,  nor  express  their 
sense  of  what  man  should  render  to  God : they  are  a 
social  and  religious  instrument  for  a social  and  religious 
end,  and  are  to  be  judged  as  means  in  fulfilling  this 
end. 

Aside  from  the  direct  object  of  a religious  edifice,  it  is 
evident  that  the  general  spirit  of  the  religion,  as  de- 
veloped in  the  faith  and  lives  of  those  who  rear  the 
cfiurch,  will  impart  to  it  certain  corresponding  qualities. 


CHURCHES. 


207 


Reverence  and  fear,  slightly  tinctured  with  love  and 
hope,  will  heap  up  solemn,  grand,  and  gloomy  piles, 
where  the  heart  worships,  yet  a great  way  off  from  its 
God  ; where  the  feelings  can  only  rise  and  fall  with  the 
slow,  measured  surge  of  the  organ.  A faith  which  puts 
slight  restraint  on  its  votaries,  whose  new  birth  is  under 
the  lead  of  old  notions,  will  in  its  religious  edifices 
develop  the  same  pride,  exclusion,  love  of  cost  and 
display  which  may  chance  to  characterize  its  wealthy 
adherents  in  their  personal  expenditures.  Or,  per- 
chance, a cultivated  taste  and  intense  love  of  art  will 
baptize  itself  into  a religious  name,  and  strictly  under 
its  old  impulses,  become  at  its  new  altar  the  devotee  of 
architecture.  On  the  other  hand,  a faith  which  is  born 
into  the  kingdom  of  Christ  will  in  every  act  remember 
that  his  kingdom  is  not  of  this  world,  — will  in  all  that 
it  does  show  a superior  and  controlling  sense  of  spir- 
itual relations  and  religious  duties.  The  costly  cathe- 
drals of  the  old  world,  and  their  imitations  with  us, 
admirable  as  may  be  their  workmanship,  we  apprehend, 
have  sprung  out  of  an  impure  Christian  faith,  and 
cannot  purely,  rightly,  beautifully  embody  a faith  which 
rests  on  Christ  of  Calvary. 

These  works,  so  grand  in  themselves  and  oftentimes 
so  truly  related  to  the  untrue,  or  rather  partial,  faith 
which  gave  rise  to  them,  have  necessarily  drawn  forth 
much  devotion  from  students  of  art,  — have  inclined 
them  to  overlook  the  fact  that  they  find  no  place  in  the 
simplicity  of  the  Christian  ritual,  and  to  treat  but  scorn- 
fully any  criticism  which  rejects  these  edifices  as  untrue 
to  Christian  character.  We  shall  sternly  insist  on  the 
principle  of  subordination,  that  pre-eminently  in  the  field 
of  her  own  architecture  is  the  law  of  religion  superior 


208 


LECTURE  Xm. 


to  the  law  of  beauty,  or  rather,  that  beauty  only  exists 
in  the  perfect  fulfilment  of  the  law  and  spirit  of  religion. 
Before,  therefore,  we  can  pronounce  the  cathedral  an 
appropriate  or  inappropriate  form  of  church  edifice,  we 
must  know  the  purpose  of  the  Protestant  Church,  the 
religious  spirit  which  expresses  itself  in  it.  That  church 
is  the  most  beautiful  which  most  truly  contains  and 
utters  that  spirit.  The  edifice  cannot  be  separated  from 
its  purpose  and  the  true  character  of  its  worshippers, 
but  must,  as  by  induction,  receive  this  purpose  and 
share  this  character. 

(cl.')  A church  is  strictly  an  assembly-room  for  a 
social  end,  — worship.  In  many  climates,  the  stately 
dimensions  and  the  high,  vaulted  roofs  of  Gothic  church- 
es are  not  fitted  for  comfort,  and  do  not  meet  the  very 
end  of  protection  which  instituted  them.  They  are  not 
auditories,  having  feeble  adaptations  either  for  speaker 
or  hearer.  They  do  not  inspire  that  cheerful  and  sym- 
pathetic feeling  which  should  belong  to  an  audience  of 
Christian  neighbors,  and  involve  an  expense  altogether 
beyond  that  requisite  to  meet  the  real  ends  of  the 
edifice.  In  thus  overlooking  the  highest  comfort  of  the 
audience,  and  the  very  fact  that  it  is  an  audience, 
inspiring  feelings  more  or  less  alien  to  cheerful  faith, 
they  override  the  religious  end  which  calls  them  forth 
with  an  aestlietical  end  of  their  own,  and  thus,  in  their 
unfitness,  are  no  more  beautiful  churches  than  they 
would  be  beautiful  dwellings. 

(b.)  Regarded  as  the  exhibition  of  private  gener- 
osity, they  are  as  often  the  medium  of  pride  as  of  genu- 
ine benevolence. 

(c.)  The  very  proprieties  and  associations  of  these 
costly  edifices  invite  to  lavish  expenditure  in  dress, 


CHURCH  ARCHITECTURE. 


209 


and  are  thus  increasingly  liable  to  become  the  ex- 
clusive possession  of  those  who  can  afford  an  expen- 
sive Gospel.  The  crowning  proof  of  Christianity  is 
thus  lost,  — the  poor  have  the  Gospel  preached  unto 
them.  The  atmosphere  of  the  place  becomes  one  of 
ease,  affluence,  self-indulgence,  wholly  alien  to  the  hu- 
mility, self-denial,  and  love  which  are  the  peculiar, 
the  working  forces  of  the  new  and  spiritual  kingdom 
of  Christ.  The  difficulty  lies  in  the  spirit  of  the  place 
and  of  the  audience,  — a spirit  which  manifests  itself 
in  the  ostentatious  architecture,  the  rich,  gloomy  grand- 
eur of  the  edifice,  in  the  costly  garments,  in  the  cold 
propriety  and  courtly  dignity  of  the  audience.  There 
is  no  self-denial,  no  condescension,  no  humility  any- 
where manifest : the  people  are  in  no  sense  a “ pecu- 
liar people,”  unless  it  be  for  their  universal  display 
of  wealth. 

Such  a temper,  so  far  as  it  prevails,  first  enervates, 
then  destroys  Christianity.  The  catholic  breadth,  hu- 
mility, and  thus  grandeur,  of  its  work  should  be  writ- 
ten in  most  legible  characters  on  the  lintels  and  door- 
posts of  all  its  structures.  The  manger  and  the 
cathedral  are  a long  way  apart,  not  less  in  spirit  than 
in  form.  The  one  speaks  of  a kingdom  and  glory 
laid  aside,  the  other  of  it  resumed ; the  one,  of  the 
invisible  overruling  the  visible  and  banishing  it,  the 
other  of  the  visible  once  more  striving  to  draw  back 
and  imprison  in  its  pomp  and  majesty  the  invisible  ; 
the  one  walks  by  faith,  the  other  by  sight.  The 
cathedral  is  neither  inference,  application,  nor  improve- 
ment of  the  text,  “ My  kingdom  is  not  of  this  world.” 
The  massive  cathedral,  with  its  echoing  arches  and  un- 
fathomed recesses,  makes  fitting  response  to  the  mys- 


210 


LECTURE  Xm. 


tie  rites  of  Popery,  but  the  quick,  sympathetic  love 
of  the  Christian  heart  is  congealed  in  its  cold  shadow. 

( d .)  The  expense  of  these  edifices  precludes  their 
use  as  Christian  churches.  In  a world  for  the  most 
part  destitute  of  churches,  the  Christian  and  mission- 
ary spirit  must  be  identical.  Every  effort  must  have 
reference  to  conquest,  and  that  which  shows  indolence, 
weakness  of  desire,  a willingness  to  tarry  amid  private 
enjoyments,  a partial  and  hesitating  surrender  of  re- 
sources to  the  only  effort  known  to  Christianity,  de- 
nies the  cross  and  the  gospel  of  self-sacrifice.  We 
first  suffer  with  Christ,  and  afterward  reign  with  him. 
Costly  architecture  reigns  by  anticipation,  reigns  with- 
out Christ,  and,  by  its  premature  prodigality,  loses  its 
right  to  reign  with  him.  It  is  yet  the  hour  of  labor 
in  which  indulgence  is  treachery,  and  labor  and  love, 
not  repose,  must  be  written  on  the  church,  as  on  every 
other  tablet  of  our  faith.  Christianity  — a spiritual 
democracy  — must  have  faith  in  its  own  broad  prin- 
ciples, in  its  own  humility,  and  feel  that  all  which 
limits  it,  concentrates  it,  gathers  it  up  into  classes,  es- 
tablishments, institutions,  edifices,  by  making  it  partial, 
makes  it  poor  and  weak  for  its  world-wide  work. 

That  church  architecture  is  best  which  has  most  of 
inspiration  in  it,  of  Christian,  Christ-like  character,  of 
cheerful,  inclusive  love,  of  self-denial,  of  the  invisible 
reigning  over  and  reigning  in  the  visible  under  the 
type  of  Calvary.  It  should  be  a true,  pure  represen- 
tation of  the  Christian  spirit,  not  towering  in  the  midst 
of  poverty  with  ostentatious  luxury,  not  vaunting  its 
costly  decorations  while  men  perish  of  spiritual  desti- 
tution, but  cheerful,  free,  serviceable,  and  under  these 
conditions  tasteful,  inviting  and  entertaining  all  with 


PUBLIC  EDIFICES. 


211 


Christian  accord.  An  expensive  church,  in  the  light 
of  the  demand  which -the  world  is  everywhere  making 
for  money,  cannot  stand  as  a fitting  expression  of  the 
Christian  spirit ; it  is  at  best  but  the  utterance  of 
Christian  pride  or  Christian  forgetfulness. 

A third  form  of  protective  architecture,  giving  full 
play  to  the  artist’s  power,  calling  for  noble  and  stable 
forms,  and  justifying  large  expenditure,  are  public 
buildings.  These  express  the  strength,  stability,  and 
wealth  of  a nation ; and  a nation  does  well  to  lend 
itself  liberally  to  the  public  service.  Colleges,  all  in- 
stitutions of  learning,  in  their  intrinsic  value  and 
durability,  in  the  claim  which  may  be  made  upon 
them  for  good  taste,  and  as  representing  our  devotion 
to  knowledge,  furnish  appropriate  fields  for  the  most 
various  architecture.  The  noblest  styles  of  the  past, 
Grecian  and  Gothic,  may  reappear  in  the  service  of 
knowledge  and  of  government. 

Architecture  of  support  is  so  restricted  and  so  thor- 
oughly utilitarian  in  its  office  as  rarely  to  appear  in 
the  field  of  fine  arts.  The  bridge  and  aqueduct  are 
its  best  structures. 

Commemorative  architecture,  on  the  other  hand,  is 
slightly  ruled  by  utility.  Permanence  is  the  leading 
law  of  form,  and  within  this  limit  all  appropriate  and 
beautiful  expression  may  be  sought.  This  very  free- 
dom renders  fine  monuments  difficult  of  attainment, 
and  they  need  as  far  as  possible  to  be  individualized 
by  the  character  of  the  particular  event  intrusted  to 
them. 

Having  reviewed  some  of  the  resources  and  aims  of 
architecture,  we  need  to  speak  of  a distinct,  subordi- 
nate element  it  frequently  employs,  — ornament.  Orna- 


212 


LECTURE  Xin. 


mentation  may  vary  form  within  the  limits  of  use,  or 
it  may  occupy  with  work  of  its  ®wn  void  spaces,  thus 
imparting  additional  fulness  and  interest  to  the  edifice. 
This  ornament  will  always  be  subsidiary  in  its  rela- 
tions and  in  the  impression  it  makes  upon  the  mind. 
The  general  outline,  character,  and  office  of  the  edifice 
will  first  occupy  attention,  and  only  later,  when  par- 
tially satisfied,  will  the  mind  turn  to  the  details  of 
treatment,  and  glean  the  pleasure  of  ornament,  — the 
completion  of  what  is  in  itself  noble. 

(a.')  The  carving  of  ornament  will  rarely  be  com- 
plete, but  rather  be  suggestive  and  symbolical,  drawn 
from  those  forms  of  life  which  most  readily  admit  this 
treatment.  This  results  from  the  rough  character  of 
the  material  which  receives  its  work,  being  the  surfaces 
which  the  building  itself  may  afford ; from  the  perma- 
nent and  often  exposed  position  of  the  product ; from 
the  rude  chiselling  of  ordinary  workmen  who  are  to  be 
employed  ; and  from  the  facts,  that  the  building  as  a 
whole,  and  not  its  parts,  is  the  object  of  the  artist,  that 
careful  imitation  in  unpliant  and  coarse  material  is  less 
pleasing  than  bold  strokes,  and  that  the  cost  of  the 
edifice  will  not  suffer  that  each  Tnember  should  be  made 
a separate  subject  of  fine  art. 

Architecture  does  not,  even  in  its  ornament,  infringe 
the  domain  of  sculpture.  The  one  is  rapid  and  repre- 
sentative, the  other  accurate  and  presentative.  The 
architect,  while  not  content  to  leave  his  stone  entirely 
blank,,  does  not  wish  to  cut  any  member  into  so  high  an 
effect  as  to  destroy  its  character  as  a subordinate  fea- 
ture, while  the  sculptor  expends  his  whole  power  on  a 
single  thing,  and  makes  it  the  great  and  costly  product 
of  his  art.  The  architect  works  through  many  agents, 


ORNAMENT. 


213 


and  leaves  a product  great  in  mass,  though  weak  in 
separate  members ; tli£  sculptor  works  alone,  and  leaves 
a product  small  in  mass,  but  condensed  and  potent  in 
expression. 

(&.)  The  ornament  of  the  architect  will  grow  elabo- 
rate and  careful  in  proportion  as  the  position  assigned  it 
is  sheltered  and  near  at  hand.  Wise  art  shows  economy 
by  giving  its  rough  chiselling  to  exposed  parts,  and  by 
treating  its  work  in  size  and  finish  according  to  the 
height  of  the  position  from  which  it  is  to  present  itself. 
This  is  to  adapt  the  object  to  the  end  to  be  reached. 

(c.)  According  as  the  architect  has  given  fulness, 
variety,  and  force  to  the  outline  of  his  building  without 
and  within,  will  the  work  of  ornamentation  be  obvious 
and  easy.  In  a form  already  fruitful,  it  becomes  wholly 
secondary,  and  readily  occupies  the  limited  spaces  left 
it.  On  the  other  hand,  if  the  building  is  barren  in 
design,  the  most  judicious  ornament  will  still  leave  it 
feeble  in  expression,  and  the  difficulty  of  reaching  this 
ornament  will  be  found  proportionately  great. 

This  is  well  illustrated  in  the  ceiling  of  a large  hall. 
If  the  architecture -has  made  nothing  of  it,  but  left  it 
one  blank  surface,  the  utmost  skill  of  decoration  will 
but  partially  repair  the  defect.  In  architecture,  as  else- 
where, the  less  the  reliance  placed  on  ornament,  the 
more  strictly  it  remains  secondary,  the  greater  will  be 
the  vigor  and  power  of  the  work.  Amid  the  earnest 
workings  of  thought,  adapting  limited  resources  to  un- 
yielding ends,  ornament  comes  in  as  the  transient  play 
of  passing  feelings,  — the  affection  with  which  the  mind 
executes  its  conceptions. 

Architecture  and  gardening  of  all  the  fine  arts  are  of 
the  most  broad  and  practical  interest.  Here  especially 


214 


LECTURE  XU!. 


is  the  popular  taste  awakened  and  cultivated.  A paint- 
ing or  statuette  poorly  atones  for  a desolate  dwelling 
and  dreary  yards.  The  beauty  of  a country,  as  well  as 
the  taste  of  its  inhabitants,  will  depend  chiefly  on  these 
two  arts,  and  these  alone  render  appropriate  the  pres- 
ence of  the  higher  and  more  condensed  products  of 
beauty.  Beauty  intertwines  itself  by  root  and  stem  with 
these  utilities  of  our  common  life,  and  later  bears  as 
blossoms  the  choice  labors  of  high  art. 


LECTURE  XIV. 

SCULPTURE.  — VALUE  OF  THE  TRUTH  PRESENTED.  — CHOICE 
OF  SUBJECTS.  — HISTORIC  ART.  — RANGE  OF  SCULPTURE. 

. — REPOSE  MATERIAL.  — FORM.  — PURE  FORM. 

In  sculpture  we  reach  the  representative  arts.  These 
do  not  subserve  a physical,  but  a spiritual  end.  No 
demand  of  mere  utility  is  met  by  the  reproduction  of 
natural  objects,  — by  the  statue  or  the  painting.  All 
the  physical  exigencies  of  life  have  reference  to  facts, 
and  not  to  their  reflections,  however  beautiful.  These 
arts  address  themselves  to  the  mind,  and  their  value 
lies  in  the  sentiments  which  they  communicate.  Great 
truths  cannot  be  too  laboriously  or  assiduously  uttered. 
The  more  lasting,  impressive,  and  perfect  the  form 
which  they  assume,  the  better ; for  they  are  the  land- 
marks of  all  generations,  the  beacons  which  make  the 
pathless  sea,  — whereon  all  crafts  freighted  with  nations, 
the  rich  argosy,  the  warlike  trireme,  the  steamship  and 
the  bark  canoe,  sailing  up  from  the  mysterious  horizon 
of  the  past,  press  onward,  — as  safe  as  the  rutted  road. 

As  beauty  lies  in  the  manner  an  independent  end  is 
reached,  the  truth  which  representative  art  brings  for- 
ward must  itself  be  both  obvious  and  important.  If 
obscurely  presented,  it  has  but  little  hold  on  the  intel- 
lect, and  less  upon  the  heart.  If  unimportant,  it  cannot 
justify  the  labor  expended  or  the  attention  invited. 
This  is  true  of  painting,  and,  in  a yet  higher  degree,  of 


216 


LECTURE  XIV. 


sculpture.  A good  painting  involves  great  labor,  and 
can  present  but  one  scene.  A poem  with  relative  ease 
presents  many  scenes.  The  first,  therefore,  as  more 
laborious  in  its  methods  and  limited  in  the  range  of  its 
results,  can  only  appropriately  employ  itself  on  the  more 
potent  and  pregnant  passages  of  life.  Thus,  though 
uttering  one  thing  and  delivering  one  message,  the 
good  painting  never  falls  back  among  unfortunate  and 
pretentious,  or  suffers  itself  to  be  overlooked  among 
neglected,  commonplaces.  This  fate  it  can  only  escape 
by  working  up  powerfully  important  sentiment.  The 
more  laboriously  a trite  truth  is  presented  the  more 
intolerable  is  it.  The  familiar  seeks  a familiar,  rapid, 
and  transient  utterance ; the  weighty  alone  can  come 
forward  to  occupy  grave  moments,  to  invite  our  deliber- 
ate and  repeated  contemplation.  The  painting  is  not 
wiped  out,  is  not  modified,  but,  year  by  year,  must  rest 
its  claim  to  attention,  to  existence,  on  its  first,  its  only, 
its  intrinsic  truth.  This  is  a severe  test,  excluding  the 
trivial  not  less  than  the  false.  What  art  strives  to  make 
permanent  she  must  first  be  sure  is  valuable.  If  our 
taste  is  so  blind  and  unfortunate  as  to  attach  value  to 
anything  in  which  the  mind  and  heart  have  no  portion, 
it  robs  us  of  our  only  relief,  destruction,  and  surrounds 
us  forever  with  weak  and  worn-out  products,  the  fatal 
fecundity  of  an  unripe  fancy ; this,  too,  in  the  very 
teeth  of  Nature,  who  is  ever  changing  her  products,  who 
paints  only  to  destroy  and  repaint,  who  suffers  the  most 
brilliant  sunset  to  fade  into  darkness,  and  is  ever  re- 
turning to  an  azure  sky,  that  she  may  begin  again  her 
cloud-work,  who  sends  the  besom  of  winter  to  brush 
clean  her  canvas,  and  who  each  day  retouches  her  pre- 
vious labors.  Even  the  most  powerful  utterances  of 


MERIT. 


217 


truth  in  men  and  actions  are  not  long  continued,  but 
are  ever  arising  under  some  new  form  with  a new  shad- 
ing of  circumstances  and  new  conditions  of  character. 
Great  men  and  great  events  are  not  repeated,  are  not 
prints  struck  from  the  same  plate,  and  little  events  in 
their  constant  flux  make  up  the  shifting  stream  of  time. 

In  a yet  higher  degree  is  this  strict  limitation  to  em- 
phatic truths  suitable  to  sculpture.  Demanding  even 
more  time  than  painting  to  realize  its  products,  hav- 
ing much  less  variety  of  truth  intrusted  to  it,  a most 
costly  and  chaste  art,  it  can  only  do  a valuable  work 
when  animated  with  a high  sense  of  the  office  to  which 
it  is  called,  of  the  nature  of  the  work  which  is  worthy 
of  it.  We  can  do  without  statues,  but  what  shall  we  do 
with  feeble  and  indecent  ones  ? This  is  a dilemma  from 
which  there  is  no  relief  without  either  a cruel  waste  of 
labor  or  of  taste  or  of  morals.  Garments,  furniture, 
houses,  wear  out,  and  the  mistakes  of  fancy  cease  to 
torture  us  and  give  place  to  others  ; but  an  unfortunate 
statue,  alas ! can  stand  in  its  speechless  nothingness, 
a pitiable  mute  forever,  too  much  of  man  in  it  to  be 
broken,  too  little  of  man  in  it  to  be  enthroned  as  a 
power  in  any  human  heart.  It  can  only  linger  on  in 
dingy,  dusty  existence,  waiting  the  charity  of  accident, 
durability  being,  in  the  sad  catalogue  of  its  qualities, 
the  most  sad. 

The  time  which  the  execution  of  a statue  requires, 
the  attention  which  it  claims,  the  limited  scope  of  the 
truth  which  it  presents,  and  its  durability,  all  demand 
that  it  should  perpetuate  only  the  higher,  nobler,  and 
more  profound  sentiments  of  our  nature,  that  it  should 
be  well  aware  that  truth,  great  truth,  and  only  truth, 
is  committed  to  it,  that  it  is  the  vault  of  our  treasures, 
10 


218 


LECTUEE  XI Y. 


the  casket  of  our  jewels.  What  we  are  not  willing  to 
let  die,  we  seal  within  stone  lips,  too  full  of  their  mes- 
sage not  to  utter  it,  too  full  of  their  message  to  utter  it 
all,  — sphinx-lips  that  speak  to  the  light. 

The  principle  which  has  been  termed  the  dignity  of 
beauty  here  exerts  a most  important  influence. 

( a .)  Between  physical  and  spiritual  qualities,  the 
ripeness  of  organic  structure  and  character,  the  latter 
only  is  worthy  of  the  chisel.  The  embalmed  body,  in 
spite  of  Egyptian  myrrhs,  becomes  a mummy.  As, 
however,  the  soul  finds  most  perfect  expression  in  a 
perfect  body,  it  is  the  physical  as  transfigured  by  the 
spiritual  which  is  the  true  theme  of  sculpture.  Nude 
statuary  throws  the  whole  weight  of  its  peculiar  effect 
into  the  balance  of  our  baser  nature,  and  thus  wars 
with  the  true  end  of  high  art. 

( b .)  Facts,  as  contrasted  with  ideas,  have  a peculiar 
claim  on  the  sculptor.  History,  as  compared  with  myths 
and  vagaries  of  a credulous  or  a classical  fancy,  has  a 
superior  hold  upon  truth,  and  thus  upon  art. 

(1.)  Such  work  at  once  renders  an  adequate  reason 
why  it  is,  by  defining  its  utility  and  the  office  which  it 
subserves.  Virtue  is  honored,  the  memory  and  power 
of  great  deeds  kept  alive,  and  the  echo  of  past  achieve- 
ment made  clear  and  ringing  in  the  present.  This  is 
for  the  world  to  show  itself  grateful,  and  still  more  wise, 
treasuring  up  the  moral  power  of  the  past  as  the  work- 
ing force  of  the  present.  Commemorative  statues  have 
a most  obvious  and  just  end  wholly  aside  from  beauty, 
and  thus  that  basis  in  which  true,  beauty  can  inhere. 

(2.)  These  products  of  art  have  also  correspondingly 
more  of  expression.  There  is  a history  known  to  all 
back  of  them,  and  this  history  consolidated  in  character 


HISTORIC  ART. 


219 


comes  forth  in  them.  Here  is  common  ground  for  the 
artist  and  for  the  critic  or  recipient  of  art.  The  one 
must  know  the  time  and  the  man,  and  rightly  embody 
these,  while  the  other  may  also  have  the  interpreting 
knowledge  with  which  to  reach  all  that  the  artist 
thought  and  felt.  Every  face  gathers  meaning  and 
expression  by  our  knowledge  of  the  man,  and  the  true 
key  of  the  statue  are  the  historic  events  which  gave  rise 
to  it  and  which  it  utters.  In  proportion  as  these  are 
not  merely  the  private  experience  of  an  individual,  but 
great  facts  for  the  world,  will  the  resulting  work  have 
interest  and  power.  It  thus  stands  as  on  a triumphal 
column,  marking  epochs  in  the  march  of  man.  So,  too, 
the  gratitude  and  loyalty  to  virtue,  which  these  most 
apt  and  faithful  remembrancers  indicate,  will  heighten 
their  expression. 

(8.)  The  very  limitation  under  which  such  art  must 
work  out  its  conception  should  rather  be  regarded  as  an 
advantage  than  a disadvantage.  History,  in  preserving 
the  general  cast  of  features  which  belonged  to  her  fa- 
vored actors,  gives  a valuable  law  and  restraint  to  the 
work  of  reproduction.  To  infuse  the  true,  the  requisite 
character  into  these,  then,  becomes  the  problem,  and 
strong  art  will  rejoice  in  it.  This  is  an  incarnation,  the 
enshrining  of  a divine  spirit  in  veritable  flesh.  Good 
historic  work  stands  rooted  in  facts,  and  will  be  kept 
fresh  and  forceful  as  long  as  the  memory  of  man  loves 
to  linger  on  the  records  of  the  race. 

(c.)  In  imaginative  work,  single  virtues  have  an 
advantage  over  more  general  and  inclusive  concep- 
tions. A single  virtue  gives  more  distinctness  and 
point  to  character,  secures  a more  free  and  indepen- 
dent variety,  and  saves  the  product  from  vague  gener- 


220 


LECTURE  XIV. 


alization.  There  is  here,  also,  a key  to  the  work,  — 
that  by  which  the  artist  may  be  understood,  that  by 
which  he  may  be  judged:  we  seek  for  a powerful 
grouping  of  the  visible  symbols  of  a single  predominant 
emotion.  Beauty  here  becomes  a tribute  to  virtue. 
Virtue  is  seen  working  itself  out  in  beauty. 

Of  the  same  nature  are  the  personifications  of  dis- 
tinct and  characteristic  portions  of  time,  of  the  morn- 
ing or  evening,  of  summer  or  spring,  of  youth  or  age. 
These  phases  of  existence  may  be  made  personal  in 
their  striking  features,  and  be  gathered  up  in  a beau- 
tiful symbol.  Here  are  found  some  of  the  most  signal 
achievements  of  sculpture. 

It  may  be  said  that  a good  statue  is  its  own  chart, 
and  that  it  is  a sad  caricature  which  needs  the  interpre- 
tation of  a label.  While  this  is  in  part  true,  we  can, 
nevertheless,  understand  and  enjoy  the  artist  only  as  he 
travels  in  a distinct  and  decided  way  toward  a definite 
object,  through  ground  the  habitat  of  human  feeling. 
The  quicker  and  more  thoroughly  we  find  out  what  he 
is  at,  the  better ; the  more  distinct,  positive,  and  appre- 
hensible the  end  to  be  realized,  the  better.  The  mind 
of  the  artist  is  strung  to  an  effort,  and  we  know  nothing 
till  we  know  the  object  of  that  effort.  Its  aim  cannot 
be  some  great  and  beautiful  effect,  but  must  be  a par- 
ticular expression, t a definite  beauty.  However  we,  as 
spectators,  arrive  at  the  end,  it  must  first  be  reached 
before  the  work  is  understood  or  wisely  enjoyed. 

Sculpture,  from  the  costliness  of  the  art,  is  bound  to 
choose  the  nobler  themes.  It  will  find  these  in  man. 
Man  is  its  chief,  well-nigh  its  exclusive  subject.  This 
also  arises  from  the  only  symbol  at  its  disposal,  — form. 
The  vegetable  form  cannot  meet  the  mechanical  condi- 


RANGE  OF  SCULPTURE. 


221 


tions  of  sculpture,  cannot  sustain  itself  in  stone,  and  is 
too  little  expressive  to  become  an  object  of  this  art. 
Animal  life  is  of  so  feeble  a character,  is  so  little  on  the 
surface,  is  so  overlaid  with  shell  and  hair  and  hide,  as 
to  make  no  considerable  figure  in  sculpture,  aside  from 
immediate  connection  with  man. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  smooth  uncovered  skin  of 
man,  undulatory  and  minutely  expressive,  with  the  soul 
on  the  surface,  makes  him  a fit  subject  for  an  art 
dealing  only  with  the  single  symbol,  form.  Even  man, 
however,  must  be  dealt  with  singly  or  in  simple  limited 
relations,  as  in  the  equestrian  statue.  From  this  re- 
stricted range  of  the  art  there  are  several  results. 

( a .)  Vice,  though  under  the  form  of  retribution, 
cannot  well  become  a subject  for  the  chisel.  Such 
figures  need  to  be  explained  and  overborne  in  their 
effect  by  the  presence  and  triumph  of  virtue.  They  are 
only  acceptable  as  features  in  a somewhat  complex 
whole,  and  such  a group  sculpture  cannot  render.  I 
know  not  how  a Laocoon  writhing  in  the  toils  of  a 
serpent  is  to  be  called  beautiful.  Such  a use  of  words 
must  at  least  demand  a transfer  of  sympathy  from  the 
man  to  the  snake.  Human  agony  is  in  itself  considered 
terrible,  not  beautiful.  The  mind  cannot  rest  with 
pleasure  on  a scene  of  agony,  however  powerfully  ren- 
dered. We  will  not  say  that  the  only  thing  to  be  ren- 
dered is  beauty,  — but  that  this  torture  of  the  heart  is 
not  beauty. 

(6.)  Virtue  must  present  itself  in  the  form  of  repose, 
trenched  in  native  strength  rather  than  in  violent  action. 
Such  action  requires  again  explanation.  A solid  stone 
statue  frowning  on  an  imaginary  enemy  seems  haunted 
with  some  ghost  of  guilt  and  danger  which  will  not 


222 


LECTURE  XIV. 


down.  That  which  is  to  be  perpetual  and  alone  should 
be  peaceful.  The  imagination  will  hardly  make  the 
figures  to  which  the  passion  of  a statue  responds  so 
stand  out  in  real  existence  as  to  render  pleasing  the 
effect.  If  an  angry  general,  rebuking  his  retreating 
soldiers,  were  left  as  the  only  figure  in  a painting,  we 
should  hardly  retain  it  long  scowling  into  vacancy,  but 
put  even  second  rate  art  to  service  to  reclaim  for  it  a 
few  runaways.  The  human  face,  in  the  armed  or  trustful 
repose  of  virtuous  strength,  is  the  citadel  of  sculpture. 

( c .)  Here  also  we  mark  a further  distinction  between 
the  carving  of  the  architect  and  the  cutting  of  the  sculp- 
tor. Every  form  of  life  sustained  by  the  solid  stone 
beneath  is  open  to  the  one,  while  man  is  the  leading, 
the  exclusive  theme  of  the  other.  Even  in  bas-relief, 
sculpture  still  shows  its  adhesion  to  high  truth  to  man. 
Architecture  also  often  symbolizes  and  distorts  its  work. 
It  is  not  content  with,  nor  does  it  aim  at,  the  truthful, 
but  intensifies  and  makes  glaring  the  prominent  ex- 
pression, striving  to  throw  into  the  deadness  of  the 
brute  something  of  the  passion  of  the  man.  Sculpture, 
on  the  other  hand,  is  satisfied  with  the  fulness  of  the 
truth  committed  to  it,  and  aims  at  that  alone. 

There  is  a spirit  in  man,  and  the  inspiration  of  the 
Almighty  givetli  them  understanding.  This  is  the  start- 
ing and  returning  point  of  sculpture,  the  basis  and  sub- 
stance of  all  it  has  to  say.  Within  this  circle  of  human 
powers  it  works,  nor  finds  itself  straitened.  Its  ma- 
terial and  means  are  as  simple  and  restricted  as  its  end. 
Pure,  spotless  marble  is  its  chosen,  its  almost  exclusive 
material.  Bronze  in  rougher  and  more  exposed  work 
is  the  only  important  exception,  and  here  the  perfection 
of  the  art  proportionately  suffers.  Bold  and  striking, 


MATERIAL. 


223 


rather  than  exquisite  and  finished,  the  bronze  statue 
looks  down  upon  you  from  a height,  and  stands  in 
the  cold  sleet  without  moving  sympathy. 

The  single  symbol  of  expression  in  sculpture  is  form, 
and  this  fact  shows  how  thoroughly  this  is  the  basis  of 
every  other  symbol.  Color,  shade,  and  motion  are  all 
dependent  upon  it,  while  it  is  independent  of  each. 
Form  puts  us  in  direct  connection  with  thought,  is  the 
explicit  and  immediate  utterance  of  thought.  Where, 
and  in  what  language  can  so  full  a chapter  be  written, 
so  deep  a discovery  of  emotion  be  made,  as  in  the  fea- 
tures of  a statue  which  your  hand  might  hide  ? The 
spring  of  life  from  which  the  poet  is  always  drawing 
here  comes  welling  up  to  the  surface.  The  passions, 
desires,  hopes,  with  which  the  tongue  is  ever  employed 
here  lie  in  silent,  constant,  condensed  utterance,  the 
impress  of  mind  on  matter,  the  great  marvel  of  the 
invisible  wrought  into  the  visible,  working  out  its  every 
power  in  appreciable  form. 

Motion,  through  the  suggestion  of  attitude,  may  be 
thought  to  be  a subsidiary  symbol  of  sculpture.  This 
in  a slight  degree  it  is.  But  the  statue  usually  existing 
alone,  and  therefore  relatively  in  repose,  motion  be 
comes  a less  significant  adjunct  than  in  painting,  and 
can  hardly  be  regarded  as  a distinct  symbol. 

Nothing  in  art  equals  the  purity,  the  singleness,  the 
chastity  of  sculpture,  — human  emotion  in  colorless 
marble.  The  statue  may  at  first  seem  cold  and  cheer- 
less in  its  tranquil  pallor,  and  yet  it  cannot  depart  from 
this,  its  high  throne  of  pure  form,  without  loss.  The 
tinged  marble  may  look  more  like  flesh,  may,  like  wax- 
work,  have  more  of  resemblance,  but,  in  stooping  to 
secure  this,  it  has  lost  the  simple  dignity  of  its  first 
message. 


224 


LECTUEE  XIV. 


I know  few  more  significant  facts  in  art  than  the 
growth  npon  the  heart  of  the  colorless  statue,  and  the 
feeling  akin  to  sacrilege  which  is  occasioned  by  any, 
even  the  most  perfect  tincture.  Art  has  by  instinct 
almost  uniformly  rejected  any  such  effort,  and,  though 
not  always  knowing  why,  has . felt  the  ground  already 
possessed  to  be  higher. 

( a .)  It  illustrates  what  has  been  said  of  resemblance 
as  not  constituting  the  aim  of  art.  It  is  here  not  even 
concurrent  with  art,  and  we  gain  it  with  a decided  loss 
of  power.  With  each  stroke  of  color  we  seem  to  de- 
scend from  pure  and  transcendental  truth  toward  com- 
monplace fact. 

(A)  It  is  also  an  instance  of  governed  and  restrained 
emotion.  We  like  to  see  the  sculptor  accept  and  cling 
to  the  stern  but  natural  law  of  his  art,  to  reject  that 
which  is  extrinsic,  which  is  of  the  nature  of  ornament, 
and  to  be  content  with  the  noble  simplicity  of  truth. 
We  are  reluctant  to  see  a purity  so  marked  mingle 
with  the  common  crowd  of  colored  things,  overlook  its 
own  distinct  and  individual  nature,  and  strive  to  lose 
itself  in  the  generic  type.  As  the  mind  gains  in  culture, 
it  eagerly  accepts  this  new  restraint,  and  loves  the  statue 
all  the  more  because  it  is  by  so  much  less  than  the 
painting.  It  wishes  to  see  it  so  great  in  its  own  most 
grand  prerogative  as  not  to  covet  color. 

(c.)  There  is  here  an  illustration  of  the  desire  that 
every  material  should  adhere  to  its  own  nature.  Mar- 
ble is  not  a good  canvas,  and  in  so  using  it  we  hide 
a most  adequate,  beautiful,  and  native  surface  with  one 
wholly  alien. 

( d .)  The  mind’s  delight  in  distinction  and  analysis  is 
shown  in  the  statue.  We  like  to  see  what  is  due  to 


PURE  FORM. 


225 


form  anatomized  out  from  every  other  symbol  of  ex- 
pression, — to  have  the  power  of  this  single  symbol  re- 
vealed. All  that  compounds  the  impression  and  returns 
it  to  the  common  channel  takes  from  it  the  keen  relish 
of  an  analytic  and  intelligent  pleasure. 

(e.)  Undoubtedly  the  power  of  association  is  here 
also  shown.  The  purity  of  white  lends  a certain  chasti- 
ty and  vigor  to  the  emotions  which  widely  sunder  them 
from  those  of  amorous  flesh.  A sacred  iiinocence  veils 
the  work,  making  it  to  the  heart  more  holy. 

These  considerations  together  give  to  sculpture  a 
more  delicate,  refined,  and  subtile  character  than  belongs 
to  any  other  art,  and  make  the  statue  the  chaste  repose 
of  virtue,  — the  calm  strength  of  a pure  spirit.  From 
this  its  high  character  statuary  should  all  the  more  be 
subject  to  the  law  of  utility,  and  not  degenerate  into 
simple  and  idle  ornament.  Let  the  end  of  influence, 
something  to  be  uttered,  something  to  be  honored,  some 
truth  again  to  be  restored  to  the  light,  show  how  and 
why  and  where  it  shall  be  present.  This  neglected  and 
the  most  pertinent  and  immediate  of  all  inquiries  is 
overlooked,  and  statues  are  more  aimless  than  the  flock- 
ing clouds  speeding  each  to  its  ministration. 

How  immortal  is  that  which  is  most  precious  in  man ! 
The  earnest  thought  brooding  into  symmetrical  ideal 
loveliness  the  forces  of  the  human  soul,  the  cunning 
hand  waking  from  its  repose  in  the  virgin  marble  a 
pure,  permanent  semblance,  together  enthrone  this  sol- 
emn, silent  life  on  its  stone  pedestal,  — an  angelic  voice, 
audible  in  all  time  to  all  hearts. 


10* 


o 


LECTURE  XY. 

PAINTING.  — TRUTH.  — VIRTUE.  — DIGNITY.  — MANNER  OF  TREAT 
MENT.  — THEMES.  — MAN.  — NATURE.  — SYMBOLS.  — COLOR 
LIGHT,  MOTION.— POWERS  REQUISITE  IN  PAINTERS. 

Painting  has  always  been  one  of  the  most  widely 
cultivated  and  generally  influential  of  the  fine  arts. 
It  includes  a greater  variety  of  subjects  than  any  art 
save  poetry,  and  is  more  precise  and  full  in  its  presenta- 
tions than  even  poetry.  The  visible  is  the  great  field  of 
beauty.  It  is  thought  realized,  and  not  abstract  rela- 
tions, that  gives  rise  to  this  sentiment.  But  the  visible 
world  is  throughout  open  to  painting.  All  that  the  eye 
sees  and  the  imagination  constructs  the  painter  may 
present.  The  whole  sweep  of  facts  and  of  ideals  — the 
growth  of  facts  — lies  before  him.  The  accurate,  literal, 
and  fixed  rendering  to  which  the  painting  is  bound  may 
sometimes  limit  it,  but  is  also  its  power.  Though  the 
angelic  and  supernatural  enter  with  more  reluctance 
and  danger  the  sphere  of  visible  art  than  the  field  of  the 
poetic  imagination,  less  distinct  and  definite  in  its  sug- 
gestion, the  real  and  the  ideal,  its  fulfilment,  rejoice  in 
this  perfect  presentation  which  makes  of  them  a full 
and  visible  fact.  The  power  of  painting  is  due  not  less 
to  the  precision  than  to  the  variety  of  its  truths. 

As  painting  is  solely  a representative  art,  either  di- 
rectly reproducing  facts,  or  the  laws  and  forces  of  nature 
presented  in  objects  wholly  akin  to  facts,  truth  becomes 


TRUTH. 


227 


most  important  among  its  characteristics.  To  under- 
stand the  mechanical,  vital,  and  rational  forces  at  work 
in  nature,  their  distinct  methods,  and  the  variety  of 
their  individual  products,  is  the  imperative  preparation 
for  representative  art.  Correctness  is  the  first  element 
of  excellence.  That  which  is  falsely  done  is  badly 
done,  though  our  ignorance  may  for  a time  disguise 
the  failure.  The  painter  who  knows  not  the  principles 
which  give  value  and  order  to  nature’s  action,  and  does 
not  most  carefully  mark  these  as  the  very  substance  and 
power  of  all  his  work,  stands  in  alliance  with  no  fact, 
no  real  existence,  and  can  only  mislead  the  judgment 
and  pervert  the  taste.  His  power  lies  in  the  fulness 
of  the  truth  reproduced  under  his  brush.  Though 
he  may  neglect  particular  facts,  he  cannot  neglect  the 
laws  which  are  in  all  facts,  — in  the  facts  of  the  painting 
as  strongly  and  visibly  as  in  those  of  nature.  Nature 
rules  in  good  art  with  the  same  absolute  and  perfect 
sway  which  she  exercises  over  things.  This  is  the 
truthfulness  and  the  value  of  representative  art,  that 
it  works  under  a keen,  accurate  apprehension  of  the 
nature  and  method  of  actual  forces.  Ignorance  is  the 
destruction  of  painting;  and  knowledge,  copious  and 
careful,  its  prerequisite.  It  must  have  science,  ex- 
perience, observation,  that  it  may  have  beauty.  Thus 
only  can  it  reach  its  object,  — the  powerful  presentation 
under  their  visible  symbols  of  the  healthy  action  of 
natural,  of  physical  and  spiritual  forces. 

As  there  is  great  variety  in  the  facts  which  the  world 
presents,  and  as  some  of  these  indicate  the  pleasurable 
and  right  action  of  the  forces  concerned,  and  others 
the  reverse,  the  painter  must  understand  that  which 
is  just  in  expression,  and  elaborate  the  successes  and 


228 


LECTURE  XV. 


not  the  failures,  the  virtues  and  not  the  vices,  of  na- 
ture ; otherwise  his  art,  no  longer  a fine  art,  shares 
the  decay  and  debauch  of  evil,  and  works  downward 
as  readily  as  upward.  Art  in  the  service  of  indiscrim- 
inate passion,  like  the  honey  in  the  carcass  of  the 
lion,  becomes  unclean,  and  through  the  taint  of  decay 
loses  its  native  sweetness.  We  need  especially  to  insist 
on  that  which  is  healthy  and  right  in  the  theipe,  so 
often  has  painting  overlooked  it.  Art  must  work  with 
nature,  not  with  her  adversaries.  All  the  forces  of 
resistance  and  perversion  which  spring  up  in  the  path- 
way of  vigorous,  of  virtuous  nature  work  against  her 
beauty,  in  working  against  her  wisdom  and  right. 
Though  passion,  like  perverted  appetite,  may  take 
pleasure  in  wrong,  the  healthy  taste  more  and  more 
rejects  it,  and  the  art  which  seeks  to  commend  its 
product  to  a high  and  correct  aestlietical  judgment  will 
be  cautious  of  moral  taint,  open  as  it  is  to  the  double 
condemnation  of  weakness  and  wickedness. 

The  battle-field,  the  gladiatorial  show,  the  fox-hunt, 
and  kindred  subjects,  in  their  physical  aspects  and  brutal 
accompaniments,  are  revolting,  and  no  art  that  treats 
them  for  what  they  are  in  themselves  merely  can  ever 
make  them  beautiful.  It  can  make  them  less  vivid  and 
real,  and  therefore  less  repulsive,  but  it  can  never  from 
their  cruel  details  draw  any  noble  impulse.  If  that 
which  is  offensive,  merciless,  or  terrible  is  to  be  treated, 
it  must  in  some  way  be  overshadowed  with  moral  quali- 
ties, be  lost  in  the  true  heroism  of  the  actors,  or,  at  the 
least,  have  the  dire  and  prophetic  words  of  retribution 
written  on  it.  The  notion  that  things  displeasing  in 
themselves  are  suddenly  made  beautiful  by  painting  is 
false.  We  may  take  a certain  satisfaction  in  a clever 


DIGNITY. 


220 


rebemblance,  but  the  painting  has  no  other  expression, 
no  higher  power  than  a kindred  scene  in  nature.  There 
must  be  the  same  mastery  of  reason  over  matter,  of 
spirit  over  flesh,  in  the  one  as  in  the  other,  before  there 
is  beauty. 

The  dignity  of  beauty  needs  also  to  be  especially  en- 
forced in  painting.  Every  fit  thing  in  nature  is  not 
equally  worth  the  labor  of  the  artist.  We  are  not  to 
have  a blind  mania  for  painting  which  immediately 
attaches  a new  and  strange  value  to  the  most  insig- 
nificant object  when  reproduced  on  canvas.  The  end 
of  the  art  is  not  simply  to  paint,  but  to  paint  that  which 
is  worth  our  protracted  attention,  and  so  to  paint  it  as 
that  its  most  valuable  and  significant  thoughts  shall  be 
revealed.  The  labor  of  the  painter,  if  less  than  that  of 
the  sculptor,  is  yet  very  considerable,  and  is  not  to  be 
lost  on  a meaningless  object,  or  an  object  made  mean- 
ingless by  its  treatment.  The  theme  and  method  are 
to  be  judged  by  the  nature  and  amount  of  the  thought 
they  reveal,  and  the  artist  must  approve  his  steward- 
ship in  this  intellectual  aim.  Is  it  worth  while  ? is  a 
question,  when  broadly  put,  as  applicable  to  art  as  to 
any  other  investment  of  labor.  Nothing  is  more  worth- 
less than  poor  paintings,  and  we  shall  be  relieved  of 
many  of  these,  if  we  sternly  demand  thought  rather 
than  form,  character  rather  than  color.  He  only  can 
paint  who  deeply  apprehends  and  feels  visible  truth, 
and  to  train  pupils  up  to  this  art  by  classes  and  sem- 
inaries is  as  impossible  as  to  train  them  in  a kindred 
manner  into  acceptable  poets.  Drawing,  and  sometimes 
painting,  may  indeed  be  used  as  a discipline  of  the  eye, 
hand,  and  taste ; and  so  used  they  may  prepare  the  way 
for,  but  are  not  in  themselves  fine  art. 


230 


LECTURE  XV. 


While  some  scenes,  as  more  significant  and  valuable, 
are  more  worthy  of  art  than  others,  there  is  an  equally 
marked  difference  in  their  method  of  treatment.  One 
artist,  invited  by  that  which  is  casual  and  accidental, 
compounds  his  work  of  trifles  and  details,  rendering  the 
fact  before  you  only  too  faithfully  in  its  insignificant 
incidents ; another  in  each  transient  compound  sees 
character  and  principle,  and  bringing  these  to  the  sur- 
face, imparts  breadth  and  law  to  what  were  otherwise 
limited  and  trivial.  Under  the  treatment  of  the  one, 
the  domestic  scene  is  an  ordinary  kitchen,  with  ordinary 
utensils  and  very  ordinary  people,  living  in  their  poor 
way ; under  that  of  the  other,  it  is  this  and  much  more. 
It  is  a phase  of  human  life,  in  which  the  play  of  human 
feeling,  hope,  fear,  affection,  are  seen,  — a chapter  from 
the  world’s  experience  thumbed  by  all  our  neighbors. 
The  one  paints  the  man  when  his  feelings  have  sunk 
back  into  his  heart ; the  other,  when  his  life  has  arisen 
to  his  lips  and  face.  The  one  paints  with  common- 
place eyes ; the  other,  with  the  intuitions  of  the  poet. 
These  he  uses  for  our  benefit,  and  paints  the  world  as 
he  sees  it.  His  high  powers  are  put  to  service,  and  we 
are  invested  with  his  inspiration.  What  presents  the 
most  to  him  he  chooses,  and  so  represents  it  that  it 
bears  to  us  the  feeling  with  which  he  has  freighted  it. 
Even  the  familiar  we  see  as  we  had  not  before  seen  it, 
for  his  higher  intuitions  have  laid  it  open. 

Such  work,  if  the  mind  be  normal,  has  all  value,  ever 
lies  within  the  sphere  of  the  painter,  for  it  vigorously 
presents  visible  truth,  — truth  which  has  already  shown 
its  power  in  stirring  and  directing  the  currents  of  one 
heart.  There  must  be  present  in  the  artist  a quick 
perception  of  the  forces  and  thoughts  at  work  in  the 


MAN.  — NATURE. 


231 


world,  of  the  fears  and  hopes  which  make  life  eventful. 
Dulness  will  render  all  things. dull,  a dry  detail  of 
facts;  while  a nature  filled  with  emotion  will  diffuse 
emotion  through  all  it  treats. 

The  greater  truths  of  the  world  are  for  the  painter, 
as  for  every  artist,  locked  up  in  man,  and  this,  not  so 
much  in  man  idealized  beyond  the  facts  of  the  world, 
as  exalted  and  enriched  within  those  facts.  Historic  vir- 
tue, character  achieved,  heroism  reached,  are  the  sig- 
nificant and  valuable  truths  to  man,  laboring  whether 
in  hope  or  in  despair.  The  portrait  has  this  license, 
that  it  may  give  the  features,  not  in  the  deadness  of 
a quiescent  spirit,  but  as  the  seat  and  instrument  of 
the  best  in  the  man’s  life.  So  would  memory  enshrine 
them,  so  far  may  love  transfigure  them.  The  historic 
portrait  has  this  license,  that  it  may  utter  all  that  his- 
tory has  before  uttered,  tracing,  under  given  restric- 
tions, the  man  as  embalmed  in  the  world’s  heart. 

So  completely,  however,  is  the  full  thought  contained 
in  all  the  works  of  the  world,  in  themselves,  in  their 
inferior  and  higher  adaptations  open  to  the  painter,  that 
man  ought  to  be  but  one  among  many  themes.  In  the 
landscape  and  lower  forms  of  life,  if  there  is  less  to 
move  the  passions,  there  is  also  less  to  disquiet  the 
mind,  and  repose  more  profound  and  exclusively  pleas- 
urable is  experienced  in  view  of  the  stretch  and  mag- 
nificence of  God’s  works,  than  before  anything  which 
human  labor  or  character  presents.  If  Nature  does  not 
travel  as  high,  she  does  not  descend  as  low  as  man, 
and  preserves,  in  more  pure  and  unsullied  reflection, 
the  image  first  committed  to  her.  God  walks  amid  the 
trees  of  the  garden.  Nature  is  more  ripe  in  her  beauty 
than  man ; she  now  wears  her  coronal,  and  is  from  this 


232 


LECTURE  XV. 


point  to  pass  away.  Manhood  is  incipient,  a dawn  amid 
the  darkness  of  storms,  a bud  under  the  close,  hard 
cerements  of  winter.  Nature,  also,  in  her  beauty  is 
God’s  grace  to  man,  and  runs  in  advance  of  his  char- 
acter ; the  bursting  out  of  undeserved  love,  and,  as 
having  in  it  the  divine  heart  and  feeling,  it  ought  to 
be  dear  to  man.  In  the  range  of  the  visible  universe, 
painting  pursues  its  object,  — the  worthy  presentation 
of  worthy  feeling. 

The  symbols  of  painting  are  as  copious  as  its  subjects. 
Form,  color,  light,  and  shade  are  its  constant  mediums 
of  expression,  while  motion,  arrested  in  attitude  and 
interpreted  by  the  relation  of  the  figure  to  surrounding 
objects,  now  lends  a vigorous  effect.  Though  the  entire 
language  of  the  eye  is  furnished  this  art,  color  is  pre- 
eminent among  its  symbols.  This  is  the  peculiar  and 
striking  characteristic  of  the  painting.  Its  animation, 
its  vividness,  its  power  over  the  eye,  and  its  superior 
impression  of  life,  are  due  to  color. 

In  the  right  management  of  this  lie  its  mechanical 
difficulties.  Pigments,  various,  well-defined,  permanent, 
and  sensitive,  are  the  first  demand  of  the  artist.  Dif- 
ferent centuries  and  countries  have  been  quite  unequal 
in  their  mastery  of  the  best  material.  Painting  will 
greatly  increase  in  worth  and  dignity  as  it  succeeds  in 
these  mechanical  conditions,  and  its  work  becomes  per- 
manent. Painting  wrought  upon  a wall  becomes  an 
adjunct  of  architecture,  stoops  to  the  fortunes  of  the 
edifice,  and  loses  something  of  the  value  which  would 
belong  to  it  as  an  independent  product.  Through  color 
is  it  that  the  other  symbols  of  expression  are  reached. 
Color  is  modified  by  form,  and  these  modifications  in 
turn  become  to  the  eye  the  indices  of  form.  The  paint- 


LIGHT. 


233 


ing  avails  itself  of  this  fact,  and,  unable  to  render  form 
except  in  outline,  gives  to  the  eye  its  indices.  Those 
complex  judgments  which  we  all  unconsciously  make 
in  expanding  the  testimony  of  the  eye  into  knowledge 
must  now  be  more  carefully  studied,  that  the  movement 
may  be  reversed,  and  the  painter  resolve  knowledge, 
facts,  into  the  symbols  of  vision,  meagre  in  what  they 
are,  yet  full  in  what  they  give. 

Every  variety  of  form,  in  every  variety  of  relation, 
secures  a new  and  distinct  effect  on  color,  and  this 
effect  the  painter  gives.  Without  passing  from  his  own 
symbol,  he  renders  in  color,  through  our  unconscious 
, judgments,  the  complete  power  of  form. 

So,  too,  light  and  shade  are  reached  solely  through 
these  modifications.  The  intensity  and  position  of  the 
light  make  an  obvious  record  on  the  color  of  every 
object,  bringing  it  out  in  brilliant  surfaces  or  hiding 
it  in  dark  shadows ; now  inviting  the  eye  to  this  side, 
and  now  to  that.  Light,  thus  the  adorner  not  less 
than  the  revealer  of  the  external  world,  yet  makes 
beauty  intensely  subservient  to  instruction.  Objects 
are  more  perfectly  distinguished,  each  from  each,  by 
a change  of  color,  light  working  different  results  on 
every  different  surface.  Their  agreement  is  also  told  — 
of  rock  with  rock,  of  tree  with  tree  — by  unchanged 
color.  Again,  the  superficial  form  of  each  is  shown 
by  a further  modification  of  light  productive  of  further 
variety ; their  relation,  each  to  each,  is  revealed  by 
shadows  and  illuminated  surfaces ; and  this  most  com- 
plex, . significant,  and  wondrous  tale  is  shifted  every 
moment  to  record  the  waning  hour.  Thus,  the  un- 
ending and  changing  beauty  of  the  world  is  the  in- 
evitable product  of  that  most  sensitive  element,  light, 


234 


LECTURE  XV. 


in  the  hearty  and  full  discharge  of  its  office  as  a re- 
vealer.  Beauty  is  ingrained  in  the  fabric  of  the  world. 
The  many-colored  coat  which  the  light  weaves  from 
its  spectrum  for  the  adorning  of  nature  is  also  the 
inevitable  result  of  a medium  of  knowledge  which 
could  not  be  perfect  without  this,  its  changeable  and 
compound  character. 

This  infinite  modification  of  light  — this  record  of 
facts  and  relations  on  light  — is  the  record  of  the  paint- 
ing, the  record  of  that  superior  sense,  the  eye.  The 
basis  of  all  is  color.  Through  this  the  body  testifies 
its  presence,  and  on  its  various-colored  surfaces,  in 
still  further  shades,  the  remainder  of  truth  is  written. 
It  is  the  art  of  the  painter  to  write  his  thoughts,  as 
God  writes,  on  the  light,  and  to  make  that  evanishing 
record,  drowned  in  the  night,  lost  in  the  flow  of  time, 
as  permanent  as  man. 

Aside  from  facts  of  light,  already  sufficiently  present-’ 
ed,  there  are  certain  others  to  be  mentioned. 

( a .)  The  intensity  of  color  is  much  greater  in  nature 
than  it  can  be  in  art.  The  full  sunlight  acting  upon 
color  gives  it  a power  which  cannot  belong  to  un- 
illuminated pigment.  In  some  scenes,  therefore,  rela- 
tive truth  alone  can  be  reached.  The  scene  is  graded 
to  the  maximum  effect  which  can  be  secured,  and  thus 
its  character,  though  not  its  force,  is  preserved.  In 
her  high  power,  in  her  full  flood  of  light,  floating  the 
clouds  after  the  spent  storm,  nature  works  far  above 
art.  The  fact  outstrips  the  poor  ideal,  and  the  idealr 
the  poorer  actual  in  paint. 

( b.' ) The  effects  of  a landscape  are  very  different  as 
we  look  upon  it  with  the  light  or  against  the  light, 
as  the  shadows  are  cast  from  us  or  toward  us.  It 


LIGHT. 


235 


seems  much  more  bald  and  naked  in  the  first  instance 
than  in  the  second.  The  colors  are  more  distinct,  soft, 
and  various  when  mingled  with  the  shadows  than  when 
in  even,  unrelieved  light.  The  difference  is  akin  to 
that  experienced  under  a vertical  sun  as  contrasted 
with  evening  light.  All  bodies  are  so  uniformly  affect- 
ed by  the  noontide  rays  as  to  make  barren  and  mo- 
notonous even  more  varied  scenery.  The  action  of 
light,  as  opening  into  and  opening  up  a landscape, 
needs  to  be  carefully  marked.  The  one  it  does  when 
flowing  on  with  the  vision ; the  other,  when  working 
its  way  among  objects  from  a different  or  even  opposite 
point.  The  best  effect  is  reached,  not  so  much  by 
strength,  as  by  inequality  and  contrast  of  light.  This, 
enhancing  color,  at  once  gives  greater  variety  to  the 
eye,  and  enables  it  to  judge  relations  more  accurately. 

(c.)  Light  is  of  much  greater  importance  in  land- 
scapes than  in  single  objects.  Single  objects,  as  man, 
are  revealed  with  few  modifications  of  light ; the  land- 
scape is  interlaced  everywhere  with  its  beams,  and  a 
most  difficult  and  chief  consideration  becomes  the  effect 
of  these  on  the  objects  presented.  Still  more  complex 
and  perplexing  is  the  problem  in  the  case  of  water. 
All  various  scenery  is  chiefly  what  it  is  through  its 
power  over  the  light ; and  as  objects  become  numerous 
and  of  less  value  in  themselves,  this  additional  labor  is 
thrown  upon  the  artist,  that  they  are  to  be  treated 
under  a single  condition  of  light.  The  unity  and  the 
vigor  of  the  piece  must  largely  depend  upon  his  mas- 
tery of  this  element,  giving  unity  and  beauty  in  nature.. 
In  any  landscape,  light,  with  its  invisible  attendant, 
heat,  is  the  chief  worker,  the  stimulating  taskmaster 
of  all  chemical  and  vital  forces.  The  vapor,  the  clouds, 


236 


LECTURE  XV. 


the  winds,  the  plants,  all  quicken  their  steps  at  its 
bidding,  and  it  robes  these  servants  of  its  will  in  royal 
livery.  Light  is  the  prime  force  of  the  natural  world, 
and  for  the  painter  not  to  know  this  is  to  know  noth- 
ing. 

, In  man,  art,  passing  over  to  the  side  of  the  spiritual 
and  engaged  with  yet  more  recondite  forces,  is  in  a 
measure  relieved  from  these  general  and  physical 
truths.  Even  in  a large  painting,  where  man  is  treated, 
we  can  hardly  wish  or  claim  a full,  broad,  powerful 
play  of  natural  forces.  One  or  other  of  these  elements 
when  united  should  be  strikingly  pre-eminent ; either 
the  force  of  man  or  the  force  of  nature,  not  both. 

Sufficient  has  been  said  of  the  end  and  means  of 
painting  to  establish  the  assertion,  that  broad  and  care- 
ful knowledge  as  well  as  just  intuitions  are  requisite 
for  the  painter.  Nature  must  have  been  long  studied 
in  her  symbols,  many  sketches  have  been  made,  the 
spirit  and  precise  form  of  her  methods  have  been 
caught,  before  the  artist  can  work  with  her,  or  do 
aught  that  she  would  not  blush  to  own. 

This  is  not  less  true  in  the  treatment  of  man  than 
of  that  which  is  lower.  There  is  more  that  is  homely 
in  man  than  in  any  other  creature.  This  should  be 
so,  for  evil  has  wrought  here  more  than  elsewhere. 
But  there  are  also  here  traces  of  all  beauty,  and  these 
must  be  studied,  if  we  would  not  have  our  idealism 
degenerate  into  vapid  notions  of  perfection,  if  we  would 
not  lose  that  variety  which  makes  man  by  himself  a 
kingdom.  Thought,  virtue,  appear  in  the  human  coun- 
tenance under  limitation,  in  conflict,  and  this  is  the 
basis  of  our  interest  and  sympathy.  We  must  study 
character,  — where  human  character  alone  exists,  if  we 


FIDELITY  TO  FACTS. 


237 


would  give  that  manhood  to  our  men  for  which  only 
they  have  value.  Every  face  has  in  it  that  which  is 
worth  the  knowing,  for  it  is  the  record  of  spirit  under 
new  conditions,  favorable  or  unfavorable.  We  are  not 
to  have  an  effeminate  love  for  physical  beauty,  but  are 
rather  to  content  ourselves  with  stern,  hard  facts,  since 
this  is  the  stubborn  necessity  now  laid  upon  us.  Not 
to  humble  angels,  but  to  exalt  men,  is  our  office,  and 
the  office  of  art,  and  she  must  learn  how  to  infuse 
the  higher  into  the  lower,  how  to  glorify  the  lower  by 
the  higher,  and  this  can  be  taught  only  in  the  world. 

The  intellect  and  heart  demanded  of  the . painter 
must  ever  assign  him  a high  rank  ; and  these,  when 
wrought  into  his  productions,  impart  to  them  com- 
manding moral  power.  Since  this  art  is  without  phys- 
ical uses,  it  must  be  exclusively,  and  all  the  more 
severely,  judged  on  its  intellectual  merits.  That  which 
claims  to  be  gold  must  meet  the  tests  of  gold. 

The  profound  questions  of  mind  and ’matter,  of  the 
condition  and  destiny  of  rrfan,  which  wait  on  all  for 
solution,  wait  also  on  the  painter.  The  insight  he  shall 
have  into  these  problems  of  our  being,  the  answers 
which  he  shall  render,  whether  hopeful,  fearful,  or  de- 
spairing, will  give  character  to  his  work,  and  lead  him 
to  find  in  nature  and  man  the  forces  of  evil,  the  gloomy 
portents  of  defeat ; or  remedial  agencies,  the  promises 
and  imagery  of  victory.  Great  art  will  know  of  the 
intellectual  and  moral  struggle  in  man,  will  know  his 
enemies,  — ignorance  and  sin,  suffering  and  death,  — 
and  will  neither  fear  or  fail  to  think  and  speak  of  these 
in  its  work.  It  will  not  draw  back  from  the  naked, 
hard,  sad  facts  of  life,  and,  if  it  be  the  highest  art,  will 
strike  into  them  some  light,  as  of  a dawning  day.  All 


238 


LECTURE  XV. 


things  will  be  understood, — the  rough,  coarse,  and 
wicked,  not  less  than  the  gentle,  the  refined,  and  the 
virtuous.  Nothing  will  be  vapid,  nothing  unworthy, 
for  under  every  transient  form  the  deeper,  broader 
relation  of  objects  will  be  seen. 

The  painter  finds  no  other  limit  to  the  moral  and 
intellectual  character  of  his  work  than  his  own  grasp 
of  topics. 


LECTURE  XVI. 


POETRY. — ITS  NATURE.  — RHYTHM.  — RANGE  OF  POETRY.— 
CLASSIFICATION.  - HISTORICAL  DEVELOPMENT.  — METHOD 
OF  TREATMENT.  — CHOICE  OF  SUBJECT.  — TRUTH.  — SUG- 
GESTION. 

The  most  radical  distinction  between  prose  and 
poetry  lies  in  the  aim  of  each.  The  best  approved 
division  of  our  powers  is  into  intellectual,  emotional, 
and  voluntary.  These  several  parts  of  our  nature  can 
each  become  the  primary  object  of  address.  Though 
not  acting  independently,  any  one  of  the  three  may  be 
the  chief  seat  of  action,  and  the  effect  there  produced 
the  aim  of  composition.  We  may  wish  to  act  upon  the 
intellect  by  adding  to  its  knowledge,  or,  directing  its 
process  of  thought ; to  reach  the  emotions,  arousing 
them  to  stronger,  nobler,  more  pleasurable  activity ; or 
to  affect  the  will,  binding  it  to  our  purpose.  These 
ends,  distinct  in  themselves,  give  rise  to  equally  distinct 
forms  of  composition.  Though  the  first  and  third  are 
included  under  one  term,  prose,  the  oration  is  not  less 
diverse  and  peculiar  than  the  poem,  while  the  disserta- 
tion, essay,  demonstration,  narrative,  and  kindred  forms 
addressed  to  the  intellect,  constitute  a third  class. 

The  interior  and  essential  characteristic  of  poetry  is 
that  it  addresses  itself  to  the  emotions,  and  rests  in 
these.  It  translates  all  things  into  feeling,  colors  all 
things  with  feeling. 


240 


LECTUEE  XVI. 


Poetry  is  passion,  — the  throb  of  a sensitive  and 
aroused  nature,  emotioij  wrought  into  speech.  Emotion 
here  acts  singly,  lending  itself  to  no  ulterior  end  ; burn- 
ing for  its  own  heat,  brilliant  by  its  own  light. 

Poetry,  having  chief  reference  to  feeling,  has  naturally 
allied  itself  to  rhythm,  and  sought  to  sustain  and  perfect 
the  flo\f  of  the  thought  by  an  accurate  and  measured 
correspondence  with  the  flow  of  syllables.  Language 
thus  ceases  to  be  mere  arbitrary  symbols,  conventional 
sounds,  aggregated  into  irregular  sentences,  and  as- 
sumes a distinct  and  peculiar  form,  in  itself  a recogniz- 
able harmony.  Language  thus  indicates  a direct  sym- 
pathy with  thought,  and  gives  an  under  strain  of 
music  to  the  play  of  feeling.  It  is  in  entire  harmony 
with  what  has  been  said  of  music  that  it  should  thus 
in  its  rudiments  add  itself  to  emotional  composition, 
and  everywhere  introduce  its  essential  element  of  meas- 
ure into  poetry. 

As  measure  establishes  a decided,  an  independent 
movement  in  the  language,  as  its  accents  and  pauses 
recur  at  stated  points,  it  becomes  a leading  and  inclu- 
sive law  of  form,  in  good  poetry,  that  the  accents  and 
pauses  of  the  thought  correspond  with  those  of  the  verse. 
Each  kind  of  verse  having  a distinct  form,  its  own  flow 
of  sound,  the  poet  must  needs  unite  the  thought  to  this 
form,  so  harmonizing  them  that  the  accents  and  em- 
phasis of  the  one  shall  correspond  with  those  of  the 
other.  Thus,  while  the  expression  preserves  its  own 
integrity,  and  has  the  grace  of  a completed  rhythm, 
the  thought  thoroughly  adopts  it,  is  as  much  born  into 
it  as  the  living  spirit  into  its  physical  organization. 

By  this  play  of  metre,  poetry  as  opposed  to  prose 
assumes  a definite,  a rhythmical,  a musical  form.  Form, 


EIIYTIIM. 


241 


as  a recognizable,  distinct  element,  does  not  enter  into 
prose,  while  it  is  ever  present  in  poetry.  This  apprecia- 
ble form  is  secured  in  English  by  the  stated  recurrence 
of  accent,  pauses,  and  rhymes.  In  some  kinds  of  verse 
all  of  these  are  employed ; in  others,  as  blank  verse,  the 
first  only.  As  this  arrangement  renews  itself  at  fixed 
intervals,  the  limit  within  which  the  measure  returns 
to  its  starting-point  is  called  a verse.  This  may  consist 
either  of  one  or  several  lines.  Accents,  pauses,  and 
rhymes,  being  capable  of  a great  variety  of  arrange- 
ments, give  corresponding  varieties  of  verse. 

Mere  accent,  furnishing  the  most  simple  and  inde- 
pendent rhythm  to  each  line,  least  of  all  hampers  the 
expression,  and,  as  in  blank  verse,  suffers  the  sentence 
to  expand  itself  through  succeeding  lines,  or  contract 
itself  at  pleasure.  Here  the  measure,  appreciable, 
though  not  always  powerful,  in  its  effect,  gives  the 
utmost  freedom  to  the  thought,  and  keeps  pace  with 
it  in  minor  melody  through  all  its  wanderings.  When 
definite  pauses  are  added  to  accent,  as  in  hexameter, 
these,  while  increasing  the  rhythm,  proportionately  con- 
strain the  expression.  This  must  now  be  so  ordered 
that  the  pause  shall  rest  upon  the  emphatic  words,  and 
shall  not  separate  closely  united  parts  ; the  whole  gram- 
matical structure  is  thus  affected,  and  the  sentences 
broken  up  into  members  of  a given  length.  If  rhyme 
is  also  introduced,  the  rhyming  words,  by  marking 
a return,  a completion  of  the  form,  also  seek  a corre- 
sponding completion  of  the  thought,  and  thus  lay  upon 
it  the  burden  of  a full  cadence.  This  it  also  does  by 
the  emphasis  which  naturally  falls  on  the  rhyming  syl- 
lable. The  presence  of  rhyme  still  further  imposes 
upon  the  verse  its  own  peculiar  burden  of  returning 

11  F 


242 


LECTURE  XVI. 


syllables.  On  account  of  these  restraints,  blank  verse 
has  become  the  chosen  vehicle  of  higher  and  bolder  and 
more  independent  sentiment,  while  the  other  kinds  of 
verse  are  fitted  for  thought  which  wishes  to  ally  itself 
more  closely  to  expression,  to  secure  a more  definite 
and  choice  form. 

This  distinction  of  verse,  though  strictly  extrinsic, 
and  not  pertaining  to  the  essence  of  poetry,  is  yet  so 
obvious  and  convenient  that  it  determines  language, 
and  nothing  is  called  poetry  which  has  not  assumed  one 
or  other  of  its  forms,  and  all  that  possesses  the  form 
carries  with  it  the  name.  We  thus  have  poetical  prose 
and  prosy  poetry. 

Poetry  is  earlier  in  point  of  time  than  prose,  and  for 
this  reason  among  others,  that,  having  a distinct  form, 
it  may  be  transmitted  in  the  loose  vehicle  of  speech 
without  change,  while  prose  cannot  escape  perpetual 
modification,  having  nothing  to  mark  its  precise  expres- 
sion. Nor  is  the  burden  which  poetry  imposes  less 
readily  borne  in  the  earlier  than  in  the  later  stages  of 
language.  The  vocabulary  of  feeling  is  first  and  most 
rapidly  enriched.  Length  of  syllables,  inflection,  and 
accents  are  all  more  heeded  while  speech  is  the  con- 
trolling element,  than  when  a written  literature,  being 
the  source  of  law,  language  shapes  itself  more  to  the 
eye  than  to  the  ear. 

Poetry  has  the  entire  range  of  feeling,  and  is  as  diversi- 
fied, therefore,  as  the  states  of  the  human  heart.  The 
mean,  base,  and  wicked  passions  are,  indeed,  no  more 
presentable  in  poetry  than  in  life,  and  yet,  as  in  life, 
they  weave  themselves  into  the  complex  fabric,  if  only 
to  suffer  the  scorn  and  rebuke  of  virtue.  Poetry  owes 
its  entire  form  to  one  portion  of  our  nature,  and  is  its 


CLASSIFICATION. 


243 


perfect  counterpart,  with  this  exception,  that  it  repre- 
sents emotion  more  under  its  pure  and  noble  than 
under  its  impure  and  debased  forms,  — more  in  its 
aspirations  and  impulses  than  in  its  lassitude  and  weak- 
ness. True  poetry  cannot  sink  wholly  to  the  level  of 
life,  for,  so  doing,  it  wastes  its  moral  and  eesthetical 
power,  and  ceases  to  be  a fine  art.  Poetry  is  passion, 
yet  not  so  much  vulgar  passion  as  passion  vivified  and 
transfigured  by  the  remnant  of  spiritual  apprehension 
and  higher  good  which  ever  belongs  to  the  poet. 

Poetry  must  receive  its  principle  of  classification 
from  our  emotional  constitution,  and  its  order  of  his- 
torical development  from  the  development  of  this  por- 
tion of  our  nature. 

All  emotion  has  reference  to  an  object,  the  mind  is 
affected  in  view  of  something,  toward  something.  Emo- 
tions may  be  divided  into  two  classes : sensational  and 
rational,  according  to  the  nature  of  the  objects  giving 
rise  to  them,  or,  more  explicitly,  according  to  the  ave- 
nue through  which  these  enter  the  mind.  The  senses, 
the  organs^  of  external  apprehension,  and  the  reason, 
the  organ  of  rational  apprehension,  are  each  the  inlets 
of  peculiar  qualities,  the  sources  of  diverse  emotions. 

This  distinction  gives  rise  to  two  classes  of  poetry,  — 
the  sensational  and  the  rational ; the  one  physical  in  its 
objects,  the  other  spiritual ; the  one  giving  the  play  of 
emotion  in  a world  of  things,  the  other,  in  a world  of 
regulative  ideas,  intuitive  laws.  The  word  sensational 
as  here  used  has  in  it  no  disparagement,  but  simply 
marks  the  external,  materialistic  character  of  the  ob- 
jects to  which  the  feeling  attaches  itself,  — marks  a 
poetry  which  is  alive  to  that  which  is,  rather  than  to 
that  which  ought  to  be ; which  travels  through  a visible, 


244 


LECTURE  XYI. 


rather  than  aspires  to  an  invisible,  world.  These  dis- 
tinct tendencies  will  show  themselves  strongly  in  poetic 
production,  and  mark  a fundamental  difference,  both  in 
the  impulse  which  gives  rise  to  the  poem  and  the  im- 
pulse which  it  can  impart.  The  highest  field  of  poesy 
lies  in  the  emotions  when  under  the  action  of  broad, 
weighty,  and  pregnant  principles  ; in  the  superior,  the 
moral  nature,  fully  aroused  by  those  truths  which  press 
its  feelings  beyond  the  present  and  visible  into  the 
unmeasured  and  invisible. 

Sensational  poetry  naturally  divides  itself  into  two 
classes,  — that  which  holds  closely  to  the  external  ob- 
ject, and  that  which  is  more  careful  to  mark  its  interior, 
its  mental  effect,  — that  which  in  description  and  nar- 
rative gives  objects  and  events,  and  that  which  traces 
the  flow  of  life,  the  action  of  the  heart  under  these. 
The  one  is  more  physical,  rendering  things  as  they  are, 
the  other  more  intellectual,  giving  them  as  modified 
in  the  feelings  and  impulses  of  individual  life.  Aware 
of  the  harshness  of  the  words  in  this  application,  we 
shall  yet,  in  the  absence  of  better  terms,  calL  these  sub- 
divisions sensual  and  emotional  poetry.  The  division 
into  sensational  and  rational  marks  the  avenues  through 
which  the  exciting  cause,  the  subject  of  poetical  passion 
enters  the  mind.  This  in  the  one  class  is  the  senses,  in 
the  other  and  higher  class  it  is  the  reason.  The  words 
sensual  and  emotional  have  reference  to  the  subject- 
matter  of  the  poem,  — the  one  including  the  external, 
the  substantial  and  visible,  the  other  the  internal,  living 
experience  amid  things  and  facts. 

These  distinctions  — like  the  fundamental  distinction 
between  poetry  and  prose  — will  not  be  found  to  per- 
fectly correspond  with  those  more  slight  divisions  which 


KINDS  OF  POETRY. 


245 


rest  on  form,  as  the  song  and  the  sonnet ; nor  with 
those  which  rest  on  single  aims  arbitrarily  selected  from 
allied  aims  to  the  neglect  of  further  classification,  as 
epic  and  dramatic  poetry.  While  these  secondary  di- 
visions will  surrender  a portion  of  their  matter  to  one, 
and  a portion  to  another,  of  the  classes  now  instituted, 
we  shall  yet  find  that  this  reference  of  poetry  to  its 
distinctive  aim,  its  subject-matter,  is  more  or  less  rec- 
ognized in  them.  Epic  poetry,  as  heroic  narrative, 
presents  life  under  its  external,  visible  forms,  in  its 
achievements  and  successes,  and  so  far  is  sensual.  Dra- 
matic poetry,  representing  life  in  tragedy  on  the  side 
of  justice,  of  retribution  and  reward,  and  in  comedy,  on 
the  side  of  accident,  of  the  fitful  and  mirthful,  also 
cleaves  to  the  external,  incarnating  the  spiritual,  so  far 
as  it  attains  it,  in  a sensible,  material  form.  Narrative, 
descriptive,  and  pastoral  poetry  evidently  belong  to  the 
visible,  sensual  world. 

Lyric  poetry,  on  the  other  hand,  the  ode,  the  sonnet, 
is  more  reflective,  marks  the  passion,  the  internal  state, 
embodies  a sympathy,  a desire,  a hope,  and  is  thus 
emotional.  So,  too,  the  autobiographic  poem  and  satire, 
didactic  and  philosophic  poetry,  so  far  as  these  have 
a right  to  exist,  mark  the  action  of  the  feelings  oh 
external  objects,  and  belong  to  emotional  poetry. 

The  last  class,  which  more  directly  contemplates  the 
higher  intuitions  of  truth  and  right,  and  more  imme- 
diately feels  their  impulse,  also  includes  much  that  is 
lyrical,  — songs  of  freedom,  of  labor,  of  worship.  The 
impassioned  claims  of  the  heart  for  the  higher  forms 
of  good,  its  rebukes  of  wrong,  its  sense  of  offended 
justice  and  hastening  retribution,  its  calm  trust  in 
ultimate  issues,  its  aspirations,  its  adorations,  are  all 


246 


LECTURE  XVL 


emotions,  arising  strictly  under  its  spiritual  nature,  and 
looking,  not  to  the  visible,  but  the  invisible  for  satis- 
faction. The  reason  of  man,  moving  amid  great  prin- 
ciples, will,  from  time  to  time,  lift  the  heart  of  man 
above  that  which  is  agreeable,  pleasing,  hopeful,  up 'to 
that  which  is  purely  and  transcendently  rational,  truth- 
ful, rightful. 

The  historic  development  of  poetry  is  for  the  most 
part  in  the  order  of  the  classification  now  given.  The 
external  and  material,  in  its  most  material  form,  first 
occupy  the  passions,  and  we  have  the  romance  and  the 
ballads  of  the  middle  ages,  or  the  stricter  epic  of  the 
early  Grecian  culture.  Life  in  its  retributive  and  disci- 
plinary character  is  later  seen,  and  thus  later  furnishes 
the  matter  of  the  drama,  — in  form  belonging  to  the 
sensational ; in  spirit,  often  a prophecy  of  the  purely 
rational.  The  ripening  reflective  powers,  no  longer 
yielding  all  to  the  active  impulses,  give  lyrics,  those 
voices  of  the  interior  life,  uttering  what  one  mind  has 
thought  and  heart  felt  amid  the  din  of  action.  The 
inner  life  must  strongly  have  asserted  itself  as  against 
the  outer  life,  have  been  able  to  affirm  the  prior  worth 
of  its  own  experience,  and  have  gathered  up,  in  the  rest 
and  silence  of  reflection,  the  evanescent  phenomena  of 
the  spirit,  before  the  lyre  will  be  strung  for  their  utter- 
ance. Culture  must  have  made  very  considerable  pro- 
gress before  poetry  will  pass  from  the  visible  to  the 
invisible,  from  the  material  to  the  intellectual.  Yet 
more  must  there  be  of  training,  before  our  fundamental 
intuitions,  deep  principles  of  order,  shall  so  govern  our 
thinking  as  to  call  forth  the  profoundest,  holiest  feel- 
ings, as  to  make  the  broad,  the  moral  relations  of  action 
the  theme  of  our  most  impassioned  verse.  In  times  of 


METHOD  OF  TREATMENT. 


247 


great  conflict  only,  when  men  are  searching  for  their 
rights,  when  religious  natures  are  wrapped  in  a holy 
enthusiasm  for  fullest,  highest  truth,  or  in  the  inspira- 
tion of  devotion,  will  the  strength  of  spiritual  impulses 
show  itself  in  poetry. 

Each  of  the  several  classes  now  enumerated  admits 
of  very  diverse  methods  of  treatment.  The  sensual 
may  stand  out  grossly  on  the  sensual  side,  description 
may  be  mere  description,  narration  mere  narration, 
giving  all  things  in  their  visible  and  material  aspects ; 
or,  with  more  quick  apprehension  and  susceptible  feel- 
ing, the  poet  may  especially  single  out  those  features 
which  affect  the  heart,  and  everywhere -reach  the  more 
significant  and  expressive  points  of  things  and  actions. 
The  drama  may  sink,  loathsome  and  lost,  in  the  mere 
filth  of  life,  the  detail  of  vice,  or  with  unflagging  jus- 
tice, scourge  the  criminal,  and  cleanse  away  the  moral 
ichor.  So,  too,  emotional  poetry  may  vacillate  between 
philosophy  and  passion,  between  dry,  acute  analysis  and 
the  pulsations  of  a changeable,  susceptible,  vigorous  life. 
It  may  forget  its  just  function,  and  become  didactic,  or, 
with  a truer  apprehension  of  its  mission,  it  may  unveil 
without  destroying  the  phenomena  of  a rich  interior 
life.  Rational  poetry  also  has  its  range,  sinking  or 
growing  in  merit.  It  may  be  perceptive,  coolly  cog- 
nizant of  law,  the  sharp  censor  of  guilt,  or  render  the 
emotions  of  a profoundly  moral  and  religious  nature 
in  view  of  great,  rights  and  great  wrongs,  — of  purity 
and  impurity,  of  immutable  truth  and  blind,  mutable 
passion. 

Each  department  is  equally  open  to  great  poetry,  and 
the  great  poetry  of  each  department  is  most  akin  in  its 
impulses,  in  its  hold  of  the  invisible  and  vital. 


248 


LECTURE  XVI. 


Our  remaining  thoughts  we  can  best  present  as  dis- 
tinct considerations  in  the  office  and  character  of 
poetry. 

(&.)  Poetry  especially  shows  its  inclination  upward 
or  downward,  its  power  or  want  of  power,  in  its 
choice  of  subjects.  It  cannot  accept  and  apply  itself 
to  the  tasks  of  history  and  philosophy  without  ceasing 
to  he  poetry.  Indeed,  such  a choice  of  themes  indicates 
that  the  poetical  spirit  does  not  exist,  that  a vain  effort 
is  being  made  to  preserve  a form  whose  life  has  escaped. 

The  past  is  generally  supposed  to  have  certain  ad- 
vantages over  the  present  as  the  field  of  passion  and 
imagination.  Facts  obscured  by  time,  less  apparent  in 
their  precise  outline  and  features,  yield  more  freely 
than  passing  events  to  the  conception,  readily  receiving 
shape  under  the  poetic  imagination. 

These  and  kindred  considerations  are  often  urged 
against  the  present,  practical,  and  commonplace,  as 
rendering  it  of  necessity  unpoetical.  These  conclusions 
are,  we  apprehend,  pushed  too  far,  and  that  the  present 
offers  some  peculiar  advantages  to  poetry,  and  has  some 
peculiar  claims  upon  it.  Different  ages  are  not  so  much 
poetical  or  unpoetical  in  then*  external  conditions,  in 
their  transient  circumstances,  as  in  their  intellectual 
character,  their  emotional  life.  When  poetical  power 
is  present,  it  will  in  every  age  find  abundant  objects  on 
which  to  exercise  itself,  while,  without  it,  every  phase 
of  life  will  be  wearisome  monotony. 

Chivalry  in  itself  was  oftener  a brutal,  passionate,  and 
loathsome  commonplace  than  either  the  magnanimity 
of  benevolent  virtues  or  the  exaltation  of  manly  cour- 
age. It  is  what  it  is  to  us  largely  through  the  trans- 
forming, transfiguring  power  of  the  poet.  A cruel  fact 


THE  PRESENT. 


249 


has  become  a brilliant  fiction.  Poetry  complains  that 
she  is  not  able,  that  she  is  not  at  liberty  with  her  high 
fancies,  so  to  transmute  and  glorify  the  present.  On 
the  tther  hand,  we  would  rather  say  that  this  is  her 
precise  office,  her  highest  mission,  and  that  the  sub- 
duing feeling,  the  earnest  experience  which  should  ever 
be  the  leading  characteristic  of  poetry  will  readily  do 
this  very  thing. 

The  poet,  that  he  may  be  eminent,  must  first  be  pre- 
eminent in  native  forces.  His  feelings  cannot  go  grop- 
ing in  blind  passion,  but  must  have  the  sharp  vision  of 
a quick  intellect,  and  rational  intuitions.  His  thoughts 
cannot  remain  inflexible  crystals,  but,  dissolved  in  feel- 
ing, must  be  ready  to  recrystallize  around  every  new 
nucleus  given  to  them.  Without  profound  passion  and 
deep  experience,  the  poet  has  no  poetry,  and  can  render 
none  that  does  not  in  barren  description  cling  to  the 
surface.  With  this  inner  under-current  of  an  aroused 
and  sensitive  life,  the  present,  far  from  being  a dull 
monotony,  will  be  the  gathered  strength,  the  treasured 
value  of  the  past,  the  pregnant  transitional  moment  in 
which  all  forces,  concurrent  and  conflicting,  are  writh- 
ing and  wrestling  to  shape  a yet  unrendered  future. 

The  present,  as  it  is  the  home  of  life,  of  effort,  of 
power,  is  the  true  home  of  passion.  Thither  the  battle- 
field and  the  tocsin  of  war  are  transferred,  all  else  is 
deserted,  - — is  death.  On  these  plains  the  dusty  armies 
of  men,  wasted  and  torn  by  the  conflict  of  centuries,  at 
length  debouch.  Here,  where  work  is  to  be  done,  vic- 
tories gained  and  lost,  where  alone  are  the  wails  of 
woe  and  the  shouts  of  joy,  the  poet  should  not,  the 
true  poet  will  not,  complain  of  the  want  of  impulse  and 
feeling. 


n* 


250 


LECTCRE  XYL 


Only  by  this  apprehension  of  the  present,  this  pulsar 
tion  of  his  life  with  the  life  of  the  race,  by  which  the 
throes  of  every  new  birth  go  rending  through  him,  can 
the  poet  become  a worker,  a prophet,  a bard,  whose 
martial  songs  stir  deeper  and  ring  louder  than  drum  or 
fife.  How  can  a poet  have  inspiration  who  is  ever  with 
the  dead,  and  this,  only  that  he  may  cherish  their  for- 
gotten pomp  ? Or,  if  he  have  inspiration,  why  should 
he  expend  it  in  this  valley  of  bones  ? The  past  restored 
will  often  be  but  a flimsy  fiction  or  haggard  ghost. 

If  human  life  as  a reality,  a passing  and  eventful 
reality,  has  no  interest,  no  value,  certainly  restored  in 
dreamy  fiction  it  will  have  less  interest,  less  value.  He 
who  has  not  fathomed  the  current  of  life  which  bears 
him  onward,  who  has  not  felt  its  forces  or  been  whirled 
in  its  eddies,  is  certainly  unable  to  treat  poetically  the 
themes  and-  objects  of  the  hour  : but  this  is  no  proof 
that  these  have  not  in  them  superior  passion  and  in- 
terest. 

Pre-eminently  are  these  considerations  just  in  con- 
nection with  all  poetry  that  springs  from  impulse,  and 
lends  impulse,  that  feels  the  action  of  law  and  principle. 
These  are  the  forces  at  work  in  the  present,  and  with 
gathered  clearness  and  strength  struggling  into  mastery. 
Poetry  that  arises  from  moral  and  religious  emotion  will 
have  to  do  with  the  present. 

The  poem  has  historical  value  which  reflects  the  life 
of  its  times.  This  value  is  lost  if  each  period,  weary  of 
itself,  is  to  seek  that  which  is  most  alien  to  its  own 
spirit,  if,  no  longer  rendering  itself,  its  experience  of 
joy  and  sadness,  it  is  ever  retreating  to  realms  of  fancy. 
Nothing  is  more  indicative  of  hopeless  and  intrinsic 
poverty  than  ennui,  a perpetual  weariness  of  the  thing 


THE  PEESENT. 


251 


that  we  are,  that  is,  — and  this,  not  as  wrong,  but  as 
vapid,  not  as  misdirected,  but  as  without  direction  and 
import.  That  period  does  best  that  best  renders  itself, 
that  is  full  of  its  own  action,  inspired  by  its  own  success. 

Even  the  epic,  with  its  strict  adherence  to  the  exter- 
nal, is  less  and  less  able  so  to  handle  the  past  as  to 
renew  it  in  the  affections  of  the  present.  A great  epic 
will  hardly  again  be  written  on  the  basis  of  warlike 
exploit,  of  brute  strength,  or  military  passion.  If 
nothing  heroic  can  be  found  in  a commercial  and  intel- 
lectual age,  then  the  heroic  scarcely  remains  to  us, 
since  the  physical  heroism  of  former  times  is  passing 
more  and  more  from  our  affections.  The  epic  of  a 
literary  and  Christian  people  must  proceed  on  the 
notions  of  that  people,  trace  its  conflicts,  and  mark  its 
endurance,  and  honor  its  successes.  If  we  are  destitute 
of  that  nobility  of  spirit  which  strives  with  enthusiasm 
and  waits  with  patience,  we  have  fallen  below  the  epic  ; 
but  if  not,  if  there  is  yet  that  in  action  which  can  jus- 
tify and  sustain  the  passion  of  poetry,  he  deserves  most 
of  his  age  who  works  this  virgin  gold  of  high  endeavor 
into  a coronet,  the  crown  of  past  success,  the  lure  of 
further  effort.  Light  up  the  life  that  is  with  the  virtue 
that  is,  or  ought  to  be,  and  bear  not  forever  the  inspira- 
tion and  imagery  of  poetry,  as  pure  oil  pressed  from  the 
best  life  of  the  present,  back  to  the  censor  of  an  old, 
worn-out  hero-worship.  This  claim  of  the  present 
upon  poetry  is  more  and  more  recognized,  and  will  be 
recognized  by  all  whose  ears  catch  the  tread  of  events, 
who  know  that  life  flows  no  more  shallow,  no  more 
muddy,  no  less  sublimely,  than  in  times  of  yore,  when 
eddying  on  through  strife  of  battle. 

Not  less  important  than  the  theme  in  poetry  is  its 


252 


LECTURE  XVI. 


method  of  treatment.  There  are  few  subjects  which 
have  not  in  them  a vein  of  poetry,  since  there  are  few 
themes  which  do  not  at  some  point  touch  the  heart. 
On  the  other  hand,  there  is  no  subject  so  exclusively,  so 
transeendently  passionate,  as  not  to  be  capable  of  be- 
coming a dry  skeleton  under  anatomical  treatment.  It 
is  the  peculiar  function  of  the  poetical  mind  to  appre- 
hend all  things  on  their  living,  emotional  side,  and  so 
apprehended  there  is  poetry  in  them  all.  The  quick 
intuition  and  aroused  heart  do  not  fail,  because  they  put 
their  possessor  in  connection  with  the  sensitive  and  the 
vital ; deeply  conscious  of  every  pulsation  in  the  world’s 
life,  he  is  able  to  transmit  it.  With  an  extended  and 
delicate  surface  of  auditory  and  visual  reception,  no 
movement  escapes  him,  the  deep  under-current  or . the 
surface  ripple.  Armed  as  with  a stethoscope,  his  ear  is 
pressed  close  to  the  throbbing  breast  of  man  ; armed  as 
with  optic  glass,  his  sharp  eye  wanders  far  and  near, 
searching  the  play  of  mighty  and  minute  forces.  It  is 
this  superior  perceptive  power,  this  delicate  musical 
tension  of  every  emotional  chord,  that  makes  the  poet 
more  than  another,  that  makes  him  our  interpreter,  the 
revealer  of  our  blind  impulses,  our  truer,  nobler  con- 
sciousness. These  better  gifts,  this  inspiration,  the  poet 
is  bound  to  have  and  to  exercise  in  our  behalf,  other- 
wise he  is  a conjuror  without  his  wand,  a king  without 
his  sceptre,  a prophet  with  no  divining  spirit.  Better 
far  to  look  on  the  external  world  through  our  own  eyes, 
than  with  the  dull,  cold,  languid  eye  of  another.  The 
poet  only  blesses  us  when  he  teaches  us  how  a mind, 
ranging  on  broader  wing,  piercing  with  sharper  vision, 
more  justly  open  than  our  own  to  pleasures  and  sor- 
rows, hopes  and  fears,  views  the  world  within  us,  the 


TRUTH. 


253 


world  about  us,  when  he  brings  light  to  paths  in  which 
we  had  before  groped,  when  he  sets  ajar  the  gates  which 
had  too  much  sundered  us  from  the  unseen.  Why 
should  he  be  our  guide,  who  bears  no  torch  ? Why 
should  the  poet  sing  that  knows  no  melody  ? 

He  who  lacks  this  very  substance  of  poetry,  emotional 
thought,  will  most  frequently  strive  to  supply  its  place 
with  the  mere  mechanism  of  verse,  with  labored  expres- 
sion, sharp  antithesis,  and  novel  phrase,  all  indicative 
of  an  effort  most  thoroughly  self-conscious  of  feeble 
thoughts,  fully  occupied  with  the  etiquette  of  language, 
like  prim  personages  of  fashion,  lost,  ingulfed  in  the 
very  act  and  courtesy  of  living. 

(c.)  Truth  presses  the  same  unyielding  claim  on 
poetry  as  on  painting  or  sculpture,  and  this  in  some 
new  particulars.  The  painter  must  make  all  things 
consistent  with  the  one  passion  and  the  one  moment 
he  has  chosen  to  utter,  but  the  poet  must  also  under- 
stand all  the  fluctuations  of  feeling,  and  be  able  to  trace 
its  phases,  — to  mark  correctly  its  growth  and  decay, 
its  abrupt  and  consecutive  transitions,  and  to  keep  the 
expression  ever  afloat  on  the  current  of  the  heart ; nor 
this  alone  under  one  set  of  circumstances,  but  under  all 
circumstances,  — not  alone  in  one  character,  but  in  all 
characters.  In  epic  and  dramatic  poetry,  the  insight 
into  human  life  must  be  accurate  and  broad,  to  meet 
the  conditions  of  truth,  to  keep  imagination,  in  its  most 
powerful  movements,  within  the  limits  of  law. 

The  claims  of  truth  are  not  inconsistent  with  that 
rule  of  reason  which  poetry  maintains  amid  its  passion  ; 
those  superior  impulses  which  it  imparts  to  its  heroes. 
While  closely  wedded  to  the  world  that  is,  it  is  also 
cognizant  of  the  world  that  might,  and  shall  be,  and 


254 


LECTURE  XVI. 


delights  to  give  its  creatures  a movement  thitherward. 
Thus  does  it  become  a moral  power,  impatiently  striv- 
ing with  the  actual,  not  that  it  may  escape  it,  but  that 
it  may  correct  it. 

Akin  to  this,  also,  is  the  increased,  and  so  far  the  un- 
natural, dignity  and  scope  of  language  which  the  drama 
allows  her  characters.  It  is. not,  as  we  have  all  along 
seen,  in  the  barren  fact,  in  the  mere  vulgar  actual,  that 
poetry  delights,  but  in  this  illuminated  by  its  own  in- 
terior light,  transfigured  in  obedience  to  a higher  law 
of  its  own  nature,  apprehended  under  its  better  im- 
pulses. The  poet  transfers  to  the  language  of  the 
clown  and  the  villain  his  own  apprehension  of  them 
respectively.  He  washes  them  of  their  filth,  and  leaves 
them  before  the  eye  in  the  bold,  clear  lineaments  of 
character,  since  this  alone  we  are  in  search  of.  He 
shows  us  what  is  significant  or  powerful  in  them,  and, 
beyond  this,  wipes  them  away,  as  simply  offensive  and 
burdensome.  The  physician,  passing  the  detail  of  dis- 
ease, merely  directs  the  eye  to  that  which  is  sympto- 
matic. 

The  cleansing  power  of  pure  science,  pure  truth,  is 
remarkable  ; certainly  that  of  poetry,  of  pure  beauty, 
should  not  be  less  so.  The  sunbeam  that  lingers  in  the 
cesspool  is  not  tarnished  thereby.  Not  even  the  beetle 
has  the  taint  of  carrion.  No  man  works  more  from 
within  than  the  poet,  and,  according  to  the  want  of 
intrinsic  purity  in  his  own  life,  will  be  the  soil  which  he 
will  contract. 

While  speaking  of  the  claims  of  truth,  we  need  to 
remember  that  truth  in  poetry  is  exceedingly  distinct 
from  truth  in  philosophy  in  the  form  which  it  assumes. 
The  one  seeks  the  naked  principle,  the  other  the  facts 


SUGGESTION. 


255 


which  contain  and  express  the  principle.  The  one 
draws  attention  to  the  law,  the  other  to  the  phenomena 
under  the  law.  It  thus  often  happens  that  a spirit  of 
poetical  criticism  is  not  only  not  identical  with,  but 
opposed  to,  the  true  spirit  of  poetry  ; that  the  mind 
thereby  falls  away  from  the  exuberance  of  life,  of  feel- 
ing, into  the  sharp  analysis  and  restricted  statements  of 
the  intellect ; that  the  element  of  thought  in  its  effort  to 
be  correct  grows  upon  the  element  of  emotion,  robbing 
it  of  its  spontaneous  impulses. 

Truth  in  poetry  is  unconsciously  held,  a living  force, 
working  in  a living  way  for  its  own  ends,  and  of  its 
own  power.  Truth  in  philosophy  is  the  aim  and  de- 
termined product  of  the  mind,  the  result  of  destruc- 
tive distillation.  The  poet  does  not  simply  understand 
character,  thereby  formally  working  out  given  results ; 
he  possesses  it  in  its  impulses,  and  these  realize  them- 
selves in  a distinct,  natural,  truthful  growth.  He  pre- 
sents new  experience,  bold  character,  and  just  phenom- 
ena under  familiar  principles  and  old  forces. 

( d .)  With  increasing  culture  and  the  transfer  of 
thought  and  interest  from  the  near  and  sensual  to  the 
remote  and  supersensual,  poetry  more  and  more  deals 
with  suggestion,  demands  a quicker  apprehension  and 
an  aroused  imagination,  as  conscious  of  addressing 
minds  more  critical  in  tlieir  action  and  broader  in  their 
knowledge.  Poetry  is  thus  less  simply  narrative,  less 
plainly  descriptive,  closely  cognizant  of  recondite  pas- 
sion, deeply  reflective  of  interior  life,  subtle  in  its  grasp 
of  illustrative  imagery.  This  tendency  in  poetry  calls 
the  mind  into  more  vigorous  action,  and  rests  the  effect 
largely  with  the  receptive  power  of  the  reader.  The 
task  of  Milton  was  by  no  means  so  simple  as  that  of 


256 


LECTURE  XVI. 


Homer,  but  success  was  no  less  possible  and  grand  with 
the  first  than  with  the  second.  The  growth  of  refine- 
ment and  knowledge,  indeed,  sweeps  away  some  ma- 
terial of  poetry,  but  adds  other  material  as  apt  and 
forceful  as  any  that  has  been  lost.  That  which  is,  is 
not  less  impregnate  with  beauty  than  that  which  the 
half-cultured  mind  thinks  to  be.  This  growth  makes 
the  labor  of  the  poet  more  difficult,  but  also  gives  him 
superior  strength  wherewith  to  perform  it.  We  have 
faith  in  poetry ; we  have  faith  in  man’s  nature.  The 
one  does  not  live  merely  amid  the  phantoms  of  twilight ; 
the  other  does  not  grow  into  barrenness,  does  not  ripen 
into  a hard,  rugged,  half-worthless  fact.  Poetry  is  per- 
manent ; springing  from  the  soil  of  the  heart,  it  there 
ripens  into  well-rounded  and  beautiful  life.  It  is  the 
fulness  of  art,  ranging  through  the  representative  and 
creative  imagination.  Dealing  with  arbitrary  symbols, 
it  suffers  no  limitations  but  those  of  feeling  and  lan- 
guage. 


THE  END, 


NEW  AND  VALUABLE 


TEXT-BOOKS  IN  PHYSICS 

FOR 

GRAMMAR  AND  DISTRICT  SCHOOLS , HIGH 
SCHOOLS ; AND  ACADEMIES \ 

BY 

W.  J.  ROLFE  and  J.  A.  GILLET, 

TEACHERS  IN  THE  HIGH  SCHOOL,  CAMBRIDGE,  MASS. 


THE  CAMBRIDGE  COURSE  IN  PHYSICS 

IN  THREE  VOLUMES: 

I.  CHEMISTRY,  $2.00. 

II.  NATURAL  PHILOSOPHY,  $2.00. 

III.  ASTRONOMY,  $2.00. 

New  and  revised  editions  of  these  books  have  been 
prepared,  and  the  Series  is  now  complete  in  a fterinanent  form. 

The  Electricity  of  the  old  “ Chemistry  and  Electricity  ” has 
been  transferred  to  the  “ Natural  Philosophy  ” in  the  new  edi- 
tion, and  has  been  wholly  rewritten,  made  somewhat  briefer, 
and  brought  fully  down  to  the  present  state  of  the  science. 
There  has  also  been  added  to  the  Appendix  of  the  “ Natural 
Philosophy”  a chapter  on  the  Physics  of  the  Atmosphere,  or 
Meteorology , containing  all  the  recent  discoveries  and  theories 
in  this  important  and  interesting  field. 

As  thus  revised,  the  “ Natural  Philosophy  ” is  complete 


2 


in  itself,  containing  Mechanics  (under  which  head  are  included 
Hydrostatics,  Hydraulics,  Pneumatics,  Motion,  Machines,  etc.), 
Sound,  Light,  Heat,  Electricity,  and  Meteorology. 

The  “Chemistry”  has  been  carefully  rewritten  and  ex- 
panded so  as  to  fill  the  space  occupied  by  the  Electricity  in  the 
old  edition.  New  chapters  on  Crystallography  and  Organic 
Chemistry , from  the  freshest  sources,  have  been  added,  and  the 
description  of  Elements  has  been  enlarged. 

This  edition  (June,  1869)  gives  the  nomenclature  as  adopted 
by  the  London  Chemical  Society,  as  taught  at  Harvard  College, 
.and  as  generally  used  in  scientific  journals. 

The  new  edition  of  the  “Astronomy  ” contains,  in  addition 
,to  the  Astronomy  proper,  a chapter  on  the  Conservation  of 
.. Energy  and  an  account  of  the  Constellations , illustrated  by  17 
full-page  Star  Maps  from  Argelander. 

These  books  are  inductive  in  method,  fresh  in  matter,  simple 
dn  style,  fully  illustrated,  and  handsomely  printed,  and  they  ex- 
actly meet  the  wants  of  our  advanced  Seminaries  and  Acade- 
mies, and  of  those  High  Schools  which  can  devote  considera- 
ble time  to  these  subjects. 


THE  HANDBOOK  SERIES 

IN  THREE  VOLUMES  : 

I.  HANDBOOK  OF  CHEMISTRY,  $ 1.25. 

II.  HANDBOOK  OF  NATURAL  PHILOSOPHY,  $ 1.25. 

III.  HANDBOOK  OF  THE  STARS,  $1.50. 

These  books  contain  (aside  from  the  Appendix)  respectively 
159,  230,  and  159  pages,  in  clear,  open  type,  with  no  fine  print, 
and  they  treat  of  all  the  topics  usually  included  in  school 


3 


manuals  of  these  sciences.  The  more  theoretical  portions  of 
the  subject  are  discussed  briefly  in  Appendixes,  and  descrip- 
tions of  apparatus  and  directions  for  performing  experiments 
are  added.  Omitting  the  Appendixes,  the  books  are  not  too 
difficult  for  the  upper  classes  in  Grammar  and  District  Schools. 
With  the  Appendixes,  they  are  exactly  adapted  to  the  wants  of 
those  High  Schools  and  Academies  which  have  not  time  for 
larger  books. 

They  are  not  abridgments  of  the  larger  works  by  the  same 
authors,  but  are  wholly  new  and  independent  books,  differing 
from  the  others  in  the  selection,  arrangement,  and  treatment  of 
topics,  so  far  as  was  necessary  to  fit  them  for  a briefer  and 
easier  course  of  study.  They  are  simple  in  style,  and  emi- 
nently practical , yet  thoroughly  scientific,  and  giving  the  results 
of  the  latest  discovery  and  research.  They  are  sure  of  a 
hearty  welcome  from  teachers  who  desire  books  that  shall  be 
brief  without  being  dry,  and  easy  without  being  puerile. 

E.  S.  Ritchie  & Sons,  of  Boston,  will  furnish  a set  of 
apparatus  for  the  thorough  illustration  of  the  Handbook  of 
Chemistry  for  $30,  and  a set  for  the  thorough  iflustration  of  the 
Handbook  of  Natural  Philosophy  for  $ 350. 


***  Circulars,  containing  notices  and  testimonials  from  emi- 
nent teachers,  will  be  furnished  on  application.  Copies  for 
examination  will  be  supplied  at  one  half  the  advertised  price, 
with  twenty-five  cents  additional  for  postage.  Special  terms 
will  be  given  for  first  introduction  of  any  of  the  books. 

WOOLWORTH,  AINSWORTH,  & CO., 

1 17  Washington  Street,  Boston. 


TESTIMONIALS. 


E*,elow  we  give  extracts  from  a few  of  the  most  recent  testimonials 
to  the  merits  of  this  popular  series  : — 

The  Pennsylvania  School  Journal  (April,  1869,)  speaks  thus  of  the 
series  : “ The  progress  of  science  teaching  in  our  schools  has  un- 
doubtedly been  retarded  by  the  lack  of  suitable  text-books.  That 
want  has  been,  in  a great  measure,  relieved  by  the  recent  labors  of 
Messrs.  Rolfe  and  Gillet,  in  their  double  course,  — a course  of  Hand- 
books for  those  who  do  not  desire  anything  beyond  elementary  in- 
struction, and  another  of  more  comprehensive  text-books  on  the  same 
sciences,  — the  last  of  which  has  just  been  published.  These  text- 
books commend  themselves  as  the  work  of  men  whose  experience  in 
the  class-room  has  taught  them  the  most  effective  methods  of  present- 
ing scientific  truth,  and  whose  design  has  been  to  present  the  results 
of  the  latest  investigations  in  the  several  departments  of  each  science 
treated.  They  aim  throughout  at  nothing  more  than  clearness,  nothing 
less  than  accuracy.  We  remark,  especially,  the  absence  of  any  loose 
statement  which  could  mislead  the  pupil  or  leave  a half-formed  idea. 
Teachers  all  know  the  difficulty  of  banishing  a false  impression  which 
has  for  a time  been  accepted  and  applied  as  fact.  Instead  of  the 
weakness  which  tends  to  enfeeble  the  growing  mind  by  presenting  the 
study  of  science  as  a play  lesson,  — a mere  succession  of  interesting 
experiments,  etc.,  — we  have  scientific  truth  here  set  forth  as  a study 
which  the  schoolboy  may  feel  an  honest  pride  in  mastering.  In  none 
of  these  works  is  system  sacrificed  to  simplicity,  as  in  some  others*  of 
their  class  ; yet  the  text-books  of  the  Cambridge  Course  yield  to  none 
in  point  of  interest.  ....  At  the  end  of  each  division  of  the  subject, 
a carefully  prepared  Summary  has  been  inserted,  thus  binding  together 
and  again  classifying  all  the  matter  previously  given.  ....  Indeed, 
take  the  Cambridge  Physics  throughout,  the  Course  is  greatly  in  ad- 
vance of  any  heretofore  issued  in  this  country.  The  publishers  have 


TESTIMONIALS. 


5 


also  done  their  part  well.  It  is  a luxury  to  sweep  the  hand  over  these 
smooth,  solid,  glossy  pages,  — beautiful  also  to  the  eye,  in  their  old- 
style  type  and  in  their  wealth  of  scientific  illustration,  — and  think  of 
the  books  as  specially  designed  for  our  Common  Schools.” 


The  San  Francisco  Bulletin , (March  20,  1869,)  in  a review  of  the 
whole  series,  says : “ These  works  embody  the  latest  results  of  sci- 
entific discovery.  The  compilers  wisely  discard  theory,  however 
plausible  and  fascinating,  unless  it  rests  on  a solid  groundwork  of 
truth.  The  arrangement  and  divisions  of  subjects  are  judicious  ; the 
method  of  teaching  is  based  on  correct  principles.  The  definitions 
are  clear  and  concise  ; the  notes  are  models  of  perspicuity.  There  is 
no  useless  verbiage  ; no  vague  generalization  ; no  rhapsodies  of  style. 
The  student  is  directly  introduced  to  the  subject,  and  kept  rigidly  to 
it  until  he  has  mastered  it.  At  the  close  of  each  section  the  ground 
gone  over  is  reviewed,  and  the  principles  educed  are  summed  up  in  a 
few  pithy  axioms.  While  these  volumes  are  more  immediately  de- 
signed for  the  use  of  schools,  they  have  high  claims  to  recognition  as 
scientific  treatises.  We  can  hardly  think  of  any  other  source  where 
so  much  valuable  knowledge  of  physics  can  be  found  in  so  short  a 
compass.  The  subjects  are  discussed  with  a freshness  and  oftentimes 
a grasp  of  thought  rare  in  books  of  the  kind.” 


The  Boston  Courier  says  of  the  whole  series  : “ They  are  in  ad- 
vance, by  a great  stride,  of  other  text-books  in  common  use,  not  only 
because  they  pursue  the  only  rational  method,  so  long  ago  instituted 
by  Bacon,  and  yet  so  much  neglected,  of  deducing  principles  from 
facts,  instead  of  supporting  rules  laid  down  by  examples,  but  also  be- 
cause they  have  kept  pace  with  the  progress  of  constantly  accumulat- 
ing knowledge  and  furnish  us  with  the  latest  results.  They  are  Model 
Books.” 


The  Boston  Daily  Advertiser  says  : It  is  in  their  attempt  to  keep 
up  with  the  progress  and  present  condition  of  scientific  knowledge, 
that  these  volumes  differ  most  widely  from  the  text-books  generally 
used  in  our  schools.  Chemistry  and  electricity  — heat,  light,  and 
sound  — wear,  in  this  Cambridge  Course  of  Physics,  a very  different 
aspect  from  that  which  they  present  in  similar  treatises  of  five-and- 


6 


TESTIMONIALS. 


twenty  years  ago We  rejoice  to  believe  that  many  myriads  of 

the  young  — and  not  of  the  young  only — -will  here  be  introduced  to 
discoveries  and  speculations  of  so  much  interest  and  grandeur.” 


The  Commonwealth.  (Boston),  in  noticing  the  “ Handbook  of  Natu- 
ral Philosophy,”  says:  “The  merit  of  this,  as  of  the  other  volumes, 
is  that  it  breaks  away  from  the  traditional  method  of  preparation  of 
such  works,  and  by  original  arrangement,  the  introduction  of  the  latest 
discoveries  and  experiments,  and  the  amplest  illustration,  gives  at  once 
the  most  complete  and  accurate  data  of  the  subject-matter  treated.  It 
is  fresh  and  pertinent  throughout,  and  is  equally  valuable  in  school 
counting-house,  or  family.” 


The  Boston  Jour?ial  of  Chemistry  (March,  1869,)  says  of  the  series  : 
“We  have  carefully  examined  these  books,  and  find  them  to  be 
compiled  with  great  accuracy  and  care  ; and  the  arrangement  of  top- 
ics and  the  general  style  are  admirable.  The  pleasing  perspicuity  and 
commendable  exactness,  with  which  the  elementary  principles  and 
facts  of  the  physical  sciences  are  presented  in  these  treatises,  are  in 
marked  contrast  with  a number  of  text-books  which  have  somehow 
found  their  way  into  many  of  our  schools.” 


The  Round  Table  (New  York)  says  of  the  “Handbook  of  the 
Stars  ” : “ It  is  a very  admirable  specimen  of  the  abilities  of  the 
authors.  There  is  scarcely  anything  in  it  which  young  pupils  cannot 
readily  comprehend.  The  illustrations  are  really  beautiful,  and  the 
collection  of  celestial  maps  at  the  end  adds  greatly  to  the  value  of  the 
work.  An  Appendix  discusses  with  considerable  thoroughness  some 
of  the  more  abstruse  subjects  touched  upon  in  the  body  of  the  book. 
The  name  scarcely  expresses  the  full  scope  of  this  manual.  It  is 
really  an  elementary  treatise  on  astronomy  without  mathematics,  and 
is  very  good  reading  for  any  one  with  a taste  for  science  but  neither 
the  time  nor  the  inclination  to  go  deeply  into  its  study.  It  is  brought 
down  to  the  very  latest  dates,  — another  advantage  in  these  days  of 
stereotype  plates  and  non-revision.  We  hope  that  Messrs.  Rolfe  and 
Gillet  will,  at  least  once  in  every  three  or  four  years,  go  carefully  over 
their  text-books  and  bring  them  down  to  the  time  of  the  latest  cor- 
rections and  discoveries.  By  so  doing,  they  will  very  effectually  keep 
the  start  of  those  lazy  writers  who,  when  they  have  finished  a school- 


TESTIMONIALS. 


7 


book  on  a progressive  science,  imagine  it  is  to  last  without  revision  as 
long  as  they  remain  in  the  world  to  draw  an  income  from  its  sales.” 


Silliman' s Journal  (March,  1869,)  says  of  the  “Handbook  of  Chem- 
istry ” : “ On  the  whole,  the  book  is  a valuable  addition  to  our  mea- 
gre collection  of  text-books  on  the  new  system,  and  we  commend  it  to 
the  notice  of  teachers.” 


La  Renaissance  Louisianaise  (New  Orleans)  says  of  the  “ Natural 
Philosophy  ” : “ Cet  ouvrage  instructif  convient  & l’usage  des  gens 
du  monde  aussi  bien  qu’a  celui  des  etudiants.  C’est  tin  manuel  qui 
traite  avec  une  grande  clarte  demonstrative  sur  tous  les  sujets  ele- 

mentaires  de  la  Physique,  d’apres  les  plus  recentes  decouvertes 

Les  auteurs  ont,  selon  nous,  completement  reussi  & produire  un  ou- 
vrage utile  au  plus  haut  point  et  dont  personne  ne  devrait  se  dispenser.” 


Mr.  S.  M.  Capron , of  the  High  School ',  Hartford Conn.,  where  the 
“Natural  Philosophy”  has  been  adopted,  says:  “We  have  ex- 
amined all  the  recent  text-books  on  this  subject  which  have  appeared, 
and  feel  convinced  that  this  is  the  best  arranged  of  all  for  our  purpose, 
and  most  fully  up  to  the  present  state  of  scientific  research.” 


Professor  Edward  Conant , of  the  Vermont  State  Normal  School, 
writes  that  his  pupils  have  used  the  same  book  “ with  constant  de- 
light, and,  of  course,  with  profit.” 


Mr.  L.  R.  Williston,  of  Cambridge , Mass.,  writes  thus  : “ I will 
express  my  good  opinion  of  the  * Handbook  of  Natural  Philosophy’ 
by  simply  saying  that  I intend  to  use  it  in  my  school.  I shall  also 
continue  to  use  the  4 Handbook  of  the  Stars,’  and  shall  use  your  book 
in  Chemistry,  if  I use  any.” 


Mr.  W.  B.  Stickney,  Master  of  the  High  School,  Chicopee,  Mass., 
says  : “ The  4 Handbook  of  the  Stars  ’ bears  the  test  of  the  school- 
room. My  class  is  delighted  with  it.” 


8 


TESTIMONIALS. 


Professor  IV.  S.  Smyth , of  Wyoming  Seminary,  Kingston,  Pa.,  who 
has  adopted  the  same  book,  says  : “For  logical  arrangement,  clear- 
ness of  expression  and  illustration,  as  well  as  for  mechanical  execution, 
it  is  unsurpassed.” 


Professor  John  B.  Burwell  of  the  Charlotte  Female  Institute,  North 
Carolina,  writes  : “ I have  been  using  the  books  for  the  last  two  or 
three  years,  and  consider  them  superior  in  all  respects  to  any  others  I 
have  ever  met  with.  I can  also  add  the  recommendation  of  Dr. 
Philips,  whose  reputation  as  a teacher  is  known  throughout  the 
South.” 


The  following  is  from  the  official  report  of  the  regular  meeting  of 
the  Chicago  Board  of  Education,  May  7,  1869  : — 

“ Mr.  Carter  moved  to  adopt  the  next  recommendation  of  the  Com- 
mittee, to  wit':  Rolfe  and  Gillet’s  Chemistry,  in  place  of  Wells’s  Chem- 
istry. 

“ Carried.  Yeas  — Messrs.  Ballantyne,  Bond,  Bonfield,  Briggs, 
Carter,  Guilford,  Holden,  King,  Meserve,  Runyan,  Shackford,  Tink- 
ham,  and  Walsh  — 13.  Nays  — None.” 


***  This  popular  course  of  Physics  has  been  officially  adopt- 
ed by  the  State  Board  of  Maryland  and  Minnesota,  and  is  al- 
ready used,  in  whole  or  in  part,  in  the  cities  of  Baltimore,  Pitts- 
burg, Wheeling,  Richmond,  Savannah,  Charleston,  Mobile, 
New  Orleans,  Galveston,  Memphis,  Nashville,  Louisville,  St. 
Louis,  Chicago,  Milwaukee,  Racine,  Bloomington,  Detroit,  Cin- 
cinnati, Columbus,  Dayton,  Cleveland,  St.  Joseph,  Wheeling, 
Buffalo,  Rochester,  Newark,  Worcester,  Taunton,  Lowell,  Ban- 
gor, Lawrence,  Haverhill,  Bath,  Milford,  Hartford,  New  London, 
New  Bedford,  Boston,  Cambridge,  Dover,  Concord,  Nashua, 
Burlington,  Dorchester,  Manchester,  Pittsfield,  Chelsea,  Chico- 
pee, Northampton,  San  Francisco,  etc.,  etc. 


THE  MW  LATIN  COURSE 


i. 

PREPAIUTOliY  LATIN  PROSE  BOOK, 

CONTAINING 

ALL  THE  LATIN  PROSE  NECESSARY  FOR  ENTERING  COLLEGE;  WITH 
REFERENCES  TO  THE  GRAMMARS  OF  HARKNESS,  ANDREWS 
AND  STODDARD,  ALLEN,  AND  BULLIONS. 

By  J.  H.  HANSON,  A.  M., 

PRINCIPAL  OF  THE  WATERVILLE  CLASSICAL  INSTITUTE. 


II. 

A HANDBOOK  OF  LATIN  POETRY, 

CONTAINING 

SELECTIONS  FROM  VIRGIL,  OVID,  AND  HORACE;  WITH  NOTES, 
AND  REFERENCES  TO  THE  GRAMMARS  OF  HARKNESS, 
ANDREWS  AND  STODDARD,  ALLEN, 

AND  BULLIONS. 

By  J.  H.  HANSON,  A.  M.,  and  W.  J.  ROLFE,  A.  M. 


III. 

SELECTIONS  FROM  OVID  AND  VIRGIL. 


A SHORTER  HANDBOOK  OF  LATIN  POETRY  ; WITH  NOTES 
AND  GRAMMATICAL  REFERENCES. 

By  J.  H.  HANSON,  A.  M.,  and  W.  J.  ROLFE,  A.  M. 

This  volume  comprises  all  the  Latin  Poetry,  Notes,  and  References  contained  in  the 
larger  volume,  with  the  exception  of  Horace. 


No.  1 embraces  all  the  Latin  prose  requisite  to  preparation  for  col- 
lege, with  reference  to  the  grammars  most  in  use,  Critical  and  Explan- 
atory Notes,  and  a Vocabulary. 

No.  2 completes  the  plan,  — furnishing  all  the  requisite  Latin 
poetry.  The  two  volumes  comprise  all  the  Latin  necessary  to  be  read 
in  preparing  for  a collegiate  course,  and  all  that  is  needed  to  complete 
the  Latin  reading  of  pupils  who  terminate  their  classical  studies  in  our 
High  Schools  and  Academies. 

No.  3 is  the  same  as  No.  2,  omitting  the  Selections  from  Horace. 

9 


MAGILL’S  FRENCH  COURSE, 


I. 

A FRENCH  GRAMMAR: 

BEING  AN  ATTEMPT  TO  PRESENT,  IN  A CONCISE  AND  SYSTEMATIC 
FORM,  THE  ESSENTIAL  PRINCIPLES  OF  THE  FRENCH  LAN- 
GUAGE : TO  WHICH  IS  ADDED  A FRENCH, 

ENGLISH,  AND  LATIN  VOCABULARY. 

Eleventh  Edition.  Enlarged  and  Improved. 


II. 

AN  INTRODUCTORY  FRENCH  READER: 

CONTAINING 

SELECTIONS  FOR  READING  AND  DECLAMATION. 


III. 

FRENCH  PROSE  AND  POETRY: 

BEING  AN  ADVANCED  FRENCH  READER  ; 

CONTAINING 

SELECTIONS  FROM  THE  PRINCIPAL  CLASSICAL  FRENCH  POETS  AND 
PROSE-WRITERS  DURING  THE  PAST  TWO  HUNDRED  YEARS, 
WITH  BIOGRAPHICAL  NOTICES  OF  THE  AUTHORS ; 

THE  WHOLE  CHRONOLOGICALLY  ARRANGED. 

By  EDWARD  H.  MAGILL,  A.  M., 

PROFESSOR  OF  ANCIENT  AND  MODERN  LANGUAGES  IN  SWARTHMORE  COLLEGE, 
PENNSYLVANIA. 


No.  1 now  contains  a complete  course  of  Grammar,  illustrated  by  copious  exer- 
cises, English-French  and  French-English,  together  with  a very  full  treatise  on 
pronunciation,  brought  down  to  date  according  to  the  most  recent  authorities. 

No.  2 Contains  selections  progressively  arranged  ; and  its  very  full  vocabulary 
gives  the  derivations  of  the  wor^s  as  well  as  their  definitions  and  pronunciation,  an 
entirely  new  feature  in  a work  of  this  character.  Both  this  work  and  No.  i are 
highly  recommended  by  M.  Bescherelle  aine,  author  of  the  Dictionnaire  National. 

No.  3 is  a combination  of  the  best  materials  to  make  a useful  French  Reader  which 
the  author  could  obtain  during  a residence  of  some  months  in  France,  seme  of  them 
already  widely  used  in  the  French  schools,  and  others,  new  selections,  taken  from 
the  original  sources. 

The  whole  series  forms  a very  complete  course  of  instruction  in  French,  according 
to  the  most  approved  modern  method,  for  our  schools  and  colleges. 

10 


A' 


NEW  ELEMENTARY  COURSE 


IN 

THE  GERMAN  LANGUAGE, 

FOR  THE  USE  OF  SCHOOLS. 

BY 

GABRIEL  CAMPBELL,  M.  A., 

PROFESSOR  IN  THE  STATE  UNIVERSITY  OF  MINNESOTA. 
j2mo.  pp.  200. 


The  aim  of  this  work  is  to  make  a practical  application  of 
the  improvements  developed  by  the  growth  of  the  modern  science 
of  Comparative  Philology. 

The  author  presents  the  German  language  to  American  learners, 
who  are  presumed  to  be  acquainted  with  the  English  language,  by 
way  of  comparison  with  the  English  in  its  points  of  similarity  and 
of  difference. 

The  plan  is  simple,  philosophical,  and  practical,  and  the  work  is 
proving  itself  eminently  successful.  It  has  received  very  flattering 
encomiums  from  high  authorities  in  all  parts  of  the  country  where 
German  is  taught. 

The  book  is  divided  into  three  parts : — 

Part  I.  General  Principles ; 

Part  II.  Synopses  — Forms  of  Words ; 

Part  III.  Special  Principles , Reading  and  Analysis  ; 

followed  by  a German  and  English  Vocabulary  to  Part  III.  It  con- 
tains also  an  English  and  German  Vocabulary  to  Part  I. 

11 


BARTHOLOMEW’S 

DRAWING  SERIES, 

DESIGNED  FOR  THE 

PRIMARY,  GRAMMAR,  AND  HIGH  SCHOOL. 

By  WILLIAM  N.  BARTHOLOMEW, 

PROFESSOR  OF  DRAWING  IN  THE  ENGLISH  HIGH  AND  GIRLS*  HIGH  AND 
NORMAL  SCHOOLS,  AND  DIRECTOR  OF  DRAWING  IN  THE 
GRAMMAR  SCHOOLS  OF  BOSTON. 


Bartholomew’s  Primary-School  Writing  and  Drawing 
Slate. 

Bartholomew’s  Drawing-Books.  New  Series.  In  twelve 
numbers;  with  “Teacher’s  Guide”  for  No.  i,  No.  2,  No.  3,  and 
No.  4. 

Bartholomew’s  Drawing-Cards  for  Blackboard  Use. 

Bartholomew’s  Progressive  Picturesque  Drawing- 
Cards.  Ill  four  numbers. 

Bartholomew’s  Linear  Perspective.  One  vol.  8vo.  64  pp. 
Bartholomew’s  Sketches  from  Nature.  In  five  numbers. 


BARTHOLOMEW’S  DRAWING-BOOKS. 

This  series  of  Drawing-Books  embraces  twelve  numbers.  Each  con- 
taining twelve  plates,  executed  in  the  highest  style  of  lithographic  art, 
and  twenty-four  pages  of  drawing-paper  of  superior  quality. 

Instruction  relating  to  the  examples  is  given  on  the  covers  of  the 
books. 

The  subject-matter  of  each  book  is  as  follows  : — 

No.  1.  — Horizontal  and  vertical  lines,  together  with  plane  figures 
and  ornamental  forms  composed  of  these  lines. 

No.  2.  — Inclined  lines  and  ornamental  forms  composed  of  horizon- 
tal, vertical,  and  inclined  lines,  curved  lines,  circles,  and  ornamental 
forms  composed  of  curved  lines. 

No.  3.  — Initiatory  lessons  in  Perspective;  The  method  of  drawing 
from  objects  explained  ; The  Laws  of  Light;  Shade  and  Shadow  pre- 
sented. 

No.  4.  — Advanced  lessons  on  the  subjects  presented  in  No.  3. 

No.  5.  — Lessons  in  drawing  Fruit  and  Flowers. 

No.  6.  — Initiatory  lessons  on  Foreground  and  Foliage. 

No.  7.  — Lessons  on  Landscape-drawing. 

No.  8.  — Marine  Views  and  Landscape. 

No.  9.  — Initiatory  lessons  on  Animal-drawing. 

No.  10.  — Advanced  lessons  on  Animal-drawing. 

No.  11.  — Initiatory  lessons  on  Figure-drawing. 

No.  12.  — Advanced  lessons  on  Figure-drawing. 

12 


Bartholomew' s Draining  Scries. 


The  object  aimed  at  in  the  first  four  numbers  is  to  give  to  pupils  in  our 
public  schools  that  facility  of  hand,  that  discipline  of  eye,  and  that 
knowledge  of  the  principles  of  drawing  which  all  should  possess.  The 
remaining  numbers  of  this  series  are  intended  for  the  use  of  those  who 
have  the  time  and  opportunity  to  pursue  the  study  further. 

For  the  assistance  of  teachers  the  author  has  prepared  a series  of 
Manuals,  called  “ The  Teacher’s  Guide.”  With. the  aid  afforded  by 
these  manuals,  any  good  teacher  may  guide  a class  to  successful  results. 


BARTHOLOMEW’S  PRIMARY-SCHOOL  SLATE, 

WITH  A SER[ES  OF  PROGRESSIVE  LESSONS  IN  WRITING  AND 
DRAWING. 

This  is  one  of  the  most  simple,  practical,  and  useful  arrangements 
which  ingenuity  has  yet  devised  in  the  way  of  a slate  for  primary 
schools. 

BARTHOLOMEW’S  PROGRESSIVE  PICTUR- 
ESQUE DRAWING-CARDS. 

Four  sets,  or  numbers.  Each  containing  twelve  cards,  accompanied 
with  instructions. 

These  cards  afford  pleasing  subjects  for  drawing.  The  object  aimed 
at,  however,  is  not  so  much  to  teach  the  art  of  drawing,  as  it  is  to 
nourish  in  the  child  a love  for  it,  afford  him  a source  of  innocent 
occupation  and  amusement,  and  lead  him  to  observe  nature. 

No.  I. — Elevations  of  familiar  objects,  principally  of  buildings; 
subjects  simple  in  outline  and  treatment. 

No.  2.  — Buildings  and  familiar  objects  in  perspective. 

No.  3.  — Buildings  and  foliage. 

No.  4.  — Landscape. 

BARTHOLOMEW’S  LINEAR  PERSPECTIVE. 

f 

I VOLUME,  IN  WHICH  THIS  SUBJECT  IS  SCIENTIFICALLY  TREATED. 

BARTHOLOMEWS  SKETCHES  FROM  NATURE. 

IN  FIVE  NUMBERS,  PAPER  COVERS,  EACH  NUMBER  CONTAINS 
FOUR  PLATES,  II  BY  1 4. 

Accurate  copies  of  the  author’s  pencil  sketches.  Affording  a pleas- 
ing variety  of  subjects,  remarkable  for  simplicity  and  power.  To 
those  who  have  had  some  little  practice  in  landscape  drawing,  these 
sketches  will  prove  exceedingly  useful  as  subjects  for  further  study. 

BARTHOLOMEW’S  DRAWING-CARDS,  FOR 
BLACKBOARD  USE. 


13 


PAY  SON,  DUNTON,  & SCMBNER’S 

NATIONAL  SYSTEM 

OF 

PENMANSHIP 


IS  USED  ALMOST  EXCLUSIVELY  IN 

New  England,  the  British  Provinces,  the  Southern  States, 
and  the  States  of  the  Pacific  Coast. 


It  has  been  re-engraved  and  republished  in  England,  Scotland, 
and  Canada.  Large  sales  have  been  made  in  the  West  Indies,  Sand- 
wich Islands,  and  New  Mexico. 

The  Publishers  of  this  popular  system  of  penmanship  have  spared 
no  pains  to  make  it  worthy  of  the  leading  position  which  it  holds  in 
the  country. 

We  have  endeavored  to  combine  every  practical  point  of  excellence 
which,  can  be  secured  through  eminent  sagacity  and  ingenuity  of  au- 
thorship, and  the  most  artistic  skill  and  precision  in  the  mechanical 
execution  of  these  books  and  charts. 

Our  effort  to  advance  the  standard  of  good  penmanship  is  shown  in 
the  progressive  character  of  our  succeeding  editions  ; the  favorable 
reception  which  the  books  have  met  with,  and  the  enviable  reputation 
which  they  now  enjoy,  is  regarded  a reasonable  subject  of  congratula- 
tion. 

The  first  four  numbers  have  been  recently  revised,  rearranged,  and 
superbly  engraved. 

The  system  comprises  three  distinct  series,  — 

COMMON  SCHOOL  SERIES,  Nos.  i,  2,  3,  4,  5,  and  6. 
BUSINESS  SERIES,  Nos.  7,  n,  and  12. 

LADIES’  SERIES,  Nos.  8,  9,  and  10. 

14 


HANAFORD  & PAYSON’S 

BOOK-KEEPING, 

COMPRISED  IN  THREE  BOOKS, 

BY 

L.  B.  HANAFORD,  A.  M.,  and  J.  W.  PAYSON 


SINGLE  ENTRY  — Common  School  Edition,  with  Blanks. 
DOUBLE  AND  SINGLE  ENTRY  — High  School  Edition,  with 
Blanks. 

ACADEMIC  EDITION  — with  Blanks. 

This  work  completely  meets  the  wants  of  the  older  pupils  in  our 
Common  Schools  and  Academies ; it  has  met  a hearty  reception,  and 
given  universal  satisfaction. 


CROSBY’S  GREEK  SERIES. 

The  series  comprises  the  following  books : — 

GREEK  LESSONS.  Consisting  of  selections  from  Xenophon’s 
Anabasis,  with  Directions  for  the  Study  of  the  Grammar,  Notes, 
Exercises  in  Translation  from  English  into  Greek,  and  a Vocabu- 
lary. 'By  Alpheus  Crosby.  i2mo.  Price,  $ i.oo. 

XENOPHON’S  ANABASIS.  Revised  Edition.  A Narrative 
of  the  Expedition  of  Cyrus  the  Younger,  and  of  the  Retreat  of  tl^ 
Ten  Thousand.  By  Xenophon  of  Athens.  Edited  by  Alpheus 
Crosby.  i2mo.  Price,  $ 1.25. 

GREEK  TABLES.  For  the  Use  of  Students.  By  Alpheus 
Crosby.  i2mo.  Price,  62  cents. 

A GRAMMAR  OF  THE  GREEK  LANGUAGE.  Re- 
vised Edition.  By  Alpheus  Crosby,  late  Professor  of  the  Greek 
Language  and  Literature  in  Dartmouth  College.  i2mo.  Price, 

*i.75- 


15 


PAYSON,  DUNTON,  & SCRIBNER’S 

STEEL  PENS. 


Having  added  onf  new  pen  to  our  series,  we  feel  that  it  embraces 
variety  enough  to  meet  all  wants  and  suit  all  tastes. 

These  Pens  are  made  expressly  for  us  by  the  best  manufacturers  in 
England  and  America ; and  in  quality  of  material,  finish  of  points, 
easy  action,  and  durability  are  unsurpassed  by  any  in  the  market. 

No.  333.  EXTRA  FINE. 

No.  44.5.  THE  NATIONAL  PEN. 

No.  7.  THE  BUSINESS  PEN. 

No.  8.  THE  LADIES’  PEN. 

No.  111.  COMMERCIAL  PEN. 

No.  117.  THE  EXCELSIOR  PEN. 

These  Pens  are  neatly  put  up  in  gross  and  quarter-gross  boxes. 
Sample  card  of  six  pens  (one  of  each  kind)  sent  to  any  address  on 
receipt  of  ten  cents. 

These  Sample  Cards  offered  to  the  trade  at  8o  cents  per  dozen. 


RICHARD’S  LATIN  LESSONS. 

SAWYER’S  LATIN  PRIMER. 

WILSON’S  TREATISE  ON  ENGLISH  PUNCTU- 
ATION. 

jSASCOM’S  WORKS. 

1.  ^Esthetics  $ or,  The  Science  of  Beauty. 

2.  Philosophy  of  Rhetoric. 

CHAMPLIN’S  WORKS. 

1.  Text-Book  in  Intellectual  Philosophy. 

2.  First  Principles  of  Ethics. 


WOOLWORTH,  AINSWORTH,  & CO.,  Publishers, 

BOSTON  AND  CHICAGO. 

16 


.... 


